


Becoming What We Pretend To Be

by locknkey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Costumes, Crossdressing Dean, Exhibitionism, Fake/Pretend Relationship, High School, M/M, Makeup, Making Out, Panty Kink, Smart Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2162418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locknkey/pseuds/locknkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a fit of pique Sam brags to his high school friends that he can get Dean as his boyfriend. Dean's never been able to say no to Sam. Pretense is a slippery-slope when you're romancing your brother and it's all too easy to for the lines between what's real and what's fake to become blurred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Becoming What We Pretend To Be

**Author's Note:**

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> Banner by [waterofthemoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon)  
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Sam doodles on the edges of his notebook paper, his equations finished before the rest of the class. The lines and whorls he etches don't take the same concentration as algebra, but they help him not to think. That's really what he likes best about school. It helps him not to think about the rest of his life.

Today it's not doing the trick, hasn't really been distracting enough the last nine days. When he enrolled at Jefferson High he was ahead of his class by a few months so the time drags even worse than normal, gives his overactive mind time to conjure up limitless deadly and failed scenarios that keep his Dad or Dean from ever coming back.

Sam looks at his paper, sighs at the jagged pencil line left behind as his mind drifted. He looks at the clock as it slow ticks, hand nudging, each second a loud boom in his head. Sam jumps when the bell finally rings.

He heads to his locker, barely registering Janelle and Lisa's gossip. The words, “new guy,” and “so hot,” drift to his ears but Sam doesn't pay too much attention. Janelle and Lisa are cheerleaders, so far above him in strata that he's beneath their notice. Sam knows he'll grow into his frame, fill out. He's good at sports, but he'll never be in any single place long enough to fit in with the jock crowd, never have enough popularity points to be on a cheerleader's arm. Not that Sam cares much about the cheerleader part. It's more that his hours don't include the chance to know anyone long enough to have a relationship, go to dances, make out under the bleachers, sneak around past curfew – or to just be a teenager and explore the things all the other teenagers get to do – to know where he fits in. Even if he did find someone special, what’s he going to do? Defy his dad and couch surf through high school? Maybe he could leave his dad, but Sam can't imagine leaving Dean and he can't fathom the possibility of another person filling up his life the way Dean does.

His chest aches as he pictures going home to the empty hotel room after school and ordering pizza again. The nights with Dean away are the worst, dragging on in spite of Sam taking on extra credit assignments and boning up on his Latin at the library.

There's a commotion at the end of the hall and Sam turns, books for his next class tucked under an arm, and sees Janelle and her groupies circling someone. Even the jocks are there, looming over their girlfriends. Sam's not the only one looking. Various groups are circling together, humming with curiosity. Any person worth the top echelon's notice must be worth getting the skinny on.

A red-and-blue skirted hip tips and a meaty hand goes around a waist and the crowd shifts enough to let Sam see the new attraction. _Well fuck. It's Dean._

Sam waits for the bell to ring and students to scatter. His anger rises with each second. As much as he disapproved of Dean dropping out, Sam was relieved not to have to linger on the edge of Dean's glory and take whatever scraps of interest were left over after Dean got the better share. People throw themselves into the wake of Dean's charms, guys and girls alike. Sam gets it. Dean can be damn charming when he tries but it's all surface, a veneer, as much a part of his costume as Dad's leather jacket and the aviator shades.

Sam lopes up to Dean, resentment burning under his skin. He gets that this is about as illogical as it comes considering he was whining internally about missing Dean just seconds before. Fuck it. He's fifteen. He's entitled to emotional one-eighties. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam's sneakers touch the toes of Dean's feet and Sam uses his new found inches to meet Dean eye-to-eye. Sam is close enough to smell Dean, the coffee on his breath, the lingering traces of the car, _home;_ the scent washes over him dragging away some of the anger, washing in other feelings Sam doesn't want to acknowledge. Instead he takes in the dark circles under Dean's eyes and wonders how long it's been since Dean slept, wonders if he drove all night to get here sooner.

“Checking up on you, dork face.”

“I'm not a baby and I don't want people around here warming up to me just to get a piece of you.” 

Dean's eyes flash, but the glimpse of hurt disappears before Sam's even sure he saw it. Sam edges toward him apologizing when Dean speaks up. “That time of the month, Samantha?”

“Fuck you, Dean.” Sam spins with a squeak of his Chucks and heads off to class before the second bell rings.

:::

Dean wasn't intending on enrolling at Sam's school, but Sam's mocking and anger seep under his skin, trigger his need to put his little brother in his place, especially after Dean drove through the night to get here.

Dean heads back to the Impala, grabs the records he needs and throws his brightest smile at the secretary. 

Schedule in hand, Dean makes his way to his first class as a Jefferson High senior. Maybe it's the lingering road weariness or Sam's pissy attitude or maybe both, but Dean's mind churns with all the ways he can make Sam's life a misery. Payback's hell.

:::

Lunch is a noisy mess with carefully divided groups. No matter how much like a party the lunch room sounds, everyone understands the unspoken boundaries and doesn't cross them.

Sam spots his normal table. The group seated there is a mix of misfits: geeks, some skaters, two exchange students, and a handful Lacrosse players and members of the girls' basketball team who aren't quite cool enough to sit at the jock table. They're all talking about Dean. In fact as Sam looks around the cafeteria, he takes in all the attention his brother receives, everything from eyes darting slyly to the side to flashes of thigh mixed in with some envy and awe.

Sam doesn't even merit eye contact or a nod as he sits down. With only two weeks under his belt; it's not like he has a best friend, but usually he gets a wave or a greeting. He sucks in a sigh and looks down at his tray. Normally the hamburger and fries are his favorite, something even the ennui of long term cafeteria cooks can't screw up. Sam doesn't dig in. The repetition of his brother's name, repeated around the room, steals Sam's appetite.

Dean's sitting alone. Sam's sure he had invites, but Dean likes to create an air of mystery around himself and chooses who to hang out with after he's given everyone the once over. The really irritating thing is Dean can choose anyone. Everyone wants to be with him. Dean can draw out even the tiniest bit of gay in the boys and last year he took a girl to prom that had a girlfriend when Dean and Sam started school there. Those who aren't a romantic interest hope that some of Dean's allure will rub off and want to be in his inner circle. Everyone wants Dean's attention on them, including Sam. 

From the middle of the table Clara snickers and says, “Ouch, the new guy just shot down Lisa.” 

“Janelle's looking at him like he's raw meat and she's a starving tiger,” says Fred. Fred has a thing for Janelle – like most of the guys in school – and his eyes gleam with jealousy and admiration as he looks at Dean. 

Sam checks out Janelle. She's definitely gorgeous, wild mass of curly hair, round, curvy, wide eyes and plush lips, but she's got a venomous tongue and Sam has done his best to stay under her radar.

“Janelle won't risk it. She's a long-term stalker type. She''ll make sure she's going to succeed before putting her reputation on the line.”

Sam watches a few more people strike out, listens to the titters around him. Clara pipes up when Dean nods at the quarterback, but sends him along tail between his legs. “Can you imagine making out with him. Look at those lips. I bet he's got a girl somewhere he's loyal to and he won't go with anyone from here.” 

Sam doesn't know what makes him say it. Well, maybe he's fed up, jealous, annoyed, a tumultuous combination of those and so much more. “Bet I can get him to go out with me.” _Fuck._ Sam resists the urge to bury his face in his uneaten lunch, wishes he could scrape the words up and shove them back in his mouth. The entire table is facing him, some with jaws hanging loose. Skeptical eyes narrow and corners of mouths turn up in doubt. Clara says, “Sure, Sammy, give it your best shot.”

When everyone laughs and turns away, totally dismissing any possibility of Sam getting Dean's attention, a lava red ball of pique chases from Sam's belly into his head, makes him rise to his feet and grab his tray. He's got everyone's attention now and the rumbling talk fades to a low buzz as Sam walks toward Dean's table.

Dean gives Sam the same treatment as everyone else. He pretends he doesn't notice Sam approaching, although Sam damn well knows that Dean has probably head counted the entire cafeteria, noted every exit, and could roughly sketch an overhead view of the room complete with table occupancy. 

Sam's heart beats its way into his throat and he keeps his eyes on Dean, pretends he can't feel the stares drilling into him. After his earlier outburst he's not sure of Dean's reception. If Dean blows him off it wouldn't be undeserved; on the other hand, Dean always has his back. 

Sam decides not to risk asking if he can sit – that way Dean can't say no. He swings his legs over the bench and sets his tray down. 

Dean raises his head and makes eye contact, raising one eyebrow. 

“Thought you might want seconds.” Sam nudges his tray toward Dean. He knows Dean, knows his brother has rarely met a burger he doesn't want to eat.

The corner of Dean's lips twitches up with the effort not to smile, but he reaches for the burger and makes it disappear in three bites. “So, I'm good enough for you now?”

So, in spite of accepting Sam's peace offering, Dean's going to make him work for it. Dean dips a fry into ketchup. When he licks his lips and fingers tom remove the excess ketchup, sighs circle the room. Sam fights not to roll his eyes, but the gesture won't win him any points. Sam goes for Dean's weak spot. “I need your help.”

“Well if we knew each other I might be willing to do that, but seeing as how I'm holding you back, I think I'll pass.”

Dean shifts, hands on his tray, ready to leave. Sam grabs his wrist to the accompanying outbursts of gasps all around. “Dean, please.” Sam makes his eyes go wide and the desperation is not faked at all. 

Dean sighs. “What do you need?” Dean's tone is grudging, but then his eyes turn sly and his smile is salacious. “Want me to introduce you to the cheer squad?” Right then Sam's glad no one can overhear them because if anyone knew what Dean said Sam's humiliation would be complete; becoming one with the floor is not a skill Sam has mastered yet.

Conversations are slipping back to normal volume, but Sam doesn't have to look to know all eyes are still on him and Dean. Sam shakes his head in the negative. He's never thought he'd need to say, _I want you to be my boyfriend,_ to his own brother and his brain is having seizures searching for a good way to articulate the unfathomable. “Um... I kind of bragged,” Sam licks his lips, but Dean is silent, not helping him at all. “Well, that maybe I could get you.”

“Get me, huh?” Dean pops another fry in his mouth. “How you gonna get me, Sammy?” Dean's voice is a suggestive roll of slurred vowels and his lids drop. _On all fours_ is probably not the best answer, but the image is crystal in Sam's head and stoppers any words Sam might utter. Dean flips his wrist over and now his fingers encircle Sam's wrist.

The words are so quiet when Sam utters them, he's afraid Dean will ask him to say it again. “As my boyfriend?”

Dean eats another fry, chews slowly and licks his lips again. His eyes rove over Sam from head to waist and back. His thumb skims over Sam's wrist and Sam will bet Dean's counting the beats thrumming under the touch. “This just a school thing, Sam?”

Sam draws his brow together, puzzling through what Dean might be suggesting. Dean skims his hand up Sam's forearm and sparks ignite under the touch. Heat rises up Sam's neck, onto his cheeks, and curls over the tips of his ears. Sam knows what he wants it to mean, but Dean couldn't possibly be suggesting something more than putting on an act. Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Well, let's make sure it looks good.” Dean lifts off the bench and grabs both trays in one hand. He never lets go of Sam's hand. The look on Dean's face is one Sam has seen only as an observer, eyes hooded, gaze intent. Sam wonders how people don't simply turn to cinder under the heat. Sam basks in the glow, and all rational thought dribbles out of his ears under the intensity of Dean's attention.

Dean tugs Sam up and around the table, hand shackled to his wrist. Sam never wants to get away, likes how secure Dean's claim on him makes him feel, protected and confident. Dean's always made him feel safe, but this is more than that; comfort and stimulation twisted in pleasure.

Dean doesn't release him until he dumps the trays. Before disappointment becomes more than a hint, Dean drapes an arm around Sam's shoulders; it's a heavy familiar weight, but Dean's fingers scritching under Sam's curls, drifting over his nape, that’s totally new. The periphery of Sam's consciousness notes the murmured sounds of disbelief and awe as they exit, but he is busy thinking ahead, about how they'll keep this from going sideways. Sam tells himself this is just like a case where they pretend to be something they aren't, except how it totally isn't.

Dean walks him to class, stops to the side of the doorway and drags his hand at a snail's pace down Sam's arm, slow enough that several people file into class before it's done. Dean winks and says, “Later, Sammy.” His thumb slides over Sam's palm before letting go.

Sam's heart's thudding in his chest and he's starting to sweat. It reminds Sam of a fever except for how he almost feels like he's floating to his seat. Sam doesn't hear much during his English class.

:::

Dean makes sure to get to psychology first. It's the only class he shares with Sam and he's got a plan. He's made good on his promise to Sam: meeting him after every class, carrying his books, brushing close and occasionally slinging an arm around his shoulders. Maybe his eyes have lingered too long on Sam's lips or his hand has strayed too close to the curve of Sam's ass, but Dean tells himself that it's part of the act. It's damn hard to pull back when Sam leans into his touches and his skin pebbles beneath Dean's fingers. Sam's frighteningly responsive and it's a huge turn-on to know he can do that to his brother. It makes Dean feel equal parts powerful and protective.

Sam has occasionally crept into Dean's fantasies in the past, but Dean's always put it down to their unusual living situation and an active libido. He knows fantasy doesn't equal reality and he never imagined he'd touch Sammy as anything but a brother. He'd do anything for Sam, always has, always will. But this play acting is messing with his head, blurring the lines between his overwhelming love for Sam with bits of fantasy come to life. 

Dean takes a seat near the back and growls at some goth kid that tries to claim it was his first. For all the tats and leather, the kid backs down at Dean's fierce look. Dean watches for Sam and is glad he doesn't need to switch seats when Sam takes a desk one row over and two seats ahead. Janelle stops at the desk in front of Dean's. She purses her lips and says, “Move.” The cute little blonde that was in front of Dean scurries to do her bidding.

Janelle sits down, flips her hair and something sweet and cloying floats back to Dean. 

As soon as the instructor is well into the lecture, Dean writes out a note and passes it to Janelle, Sam's name neatly printed on the front. “Can you pass this up?” 

Inside Dean wrote, _Movie, Saturday? You and me and a big tub of popcorn? Yes / No_

As Dean planned for, Janelle opens the note as if it's her right. She doesn't look at Dean, but her shoulders tighten.

Instead of passing the note, Janelle folds it two more times and flicks it at Sam's head.

Sam bends to get it and takes a minute to unfold it and read it. Sam smiles at him and mouths, “Yes,” silently. It's been a long time since he's seen Sammy smile like that and something flutters inside of Dean, makes him want to fight the rest of the world, wrap his arms around Sam and do everything in his power to make that smile stay put.

After class, Clara taps Sam's back to get his attention. Dean moves on ahead, waiting by Sam's locker, but he can still hear what’s being said. “Wow, Sam, I clearly didn't give you enough credit. You two are adorable and it seems like Dean really likes you. He couldn't take his eyes off you. I think half the class was jealous, including me.” She pauses for breath. “I'd watch out for Janelle. She was staring daggers at your back the whole hour.”

Clara takes off and Dean tries not to think about how easy he is to read. Of course he likes Sam. Who wouldn't?

:::

Sam moves to join Dean at his locker, only to have Janelle slip between them, her back to Sam as if he were nothing more than another piece of the wall. To Sam's surprise and pleasure, Dean ignores her, eyes pinned on Sam as he reaches around pleated hips and grabs Sam's wrist. Dean tugs Sam past Janelle and snugs him close to his side, left hand tucked in Sam's right front pocket. Dean smiles at him, eyes crinkling, world narrowing to the inches around them, and Sam inhales, holds his breath. Time stops.

Dean breaks eye contact and turns to Janelle. “Can you repeat that?”

Janelle glares at Sam, but the nuanced look bounces away under another quick grin from Dean. Stomping one booted foot, Janelle huffs out a breath. “I asked what movie you're going to. There's only one theater here in town and most of us go on Saturday. Maybe you and,” she turns her head to Sam, tilts it and waves a hand at him, “... well maybe you want to go as a group?”

Another one of those intimate tilted smiles works its way over Dean's face and Sam heats under the look Dean gives him as if Dean was turning up the dial of a furnace. Not even looking at Janelle, Dean answers, “I don't think so. Looking forward to having Sammy all to myself.”

Janelle sputters out another huff. “Well, keep it decent. Like I said, everyone goes to the movies on Saturdays.” She's looking at Sam now, brow furrowed. Sam doesn't miss the spark in her eye or the challenge of a lifted brow when she says the word _everyone._

Dean keeps his hand tight at Sam's hip until Janelle turns the corner. A few beats after she's out of sight, Dean removes his hand and eases Sam off him. An aching absence replaces the stripe of heat where his body was pressed to Dean's. Sam sucks in his sigh, an attempt to hide how much all the closeness is effecting him. He could live in Dean's personal space, content and happy if it was allowed. 

Sam grabs his books from his locker on automatic, mind churning over Janelle's words. When his thoughts mash together in the receding aftermath of Dean's touch, Sam's fingers go numb and the book he was grabbing tumbles to the floor. Dismay and anger war with each other and Sam can't decide which to land on. He spins, leaning up against the locker next to his, eyes wide on Dean as all the pieces come together. “Oh shit.”

Dean's halfway to rising from retrieving Sam's book. “You okay, Sammy?” Concern rounds his eyes and twists the corners of his mouth; his empty hand presses to Sam's chest, years of learned behavior make him reach out, feel for injuries.

Sam bats the hand away. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck!” Sam brings his fist down against metal and the hall rings with the displeased sound. 

Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face. “C'mon, Rainman, spit it out.”

“We have to go to the movie on Saturday.” Dean looks at him, a raised eyebrow emphasizing the unspoken _duh_. “No, you don't get it. We have to go together, as boyfriends.”

“What are you worried about, Sam? Not like we haven’t sat in the back by ourselves before. Not like we aren't already pretending. Don't worry about it. I got it okay?”

The panicked shout of _But you might have to kiss me._ is trapped in Sam's throat. Bitten back by not wanting Dean to think he's not up to whatever is required. Not to mention, Sam is pretty sure it would come out as a shrill screech and Dean would endlessly tease him about confirming his status in high-maintenance-land with his whining. The occasional Samantha is enough to make Sam clamp his jaw tight and punch Dean harder than necessary during sparring. Dean is doing him a favor; Sam doesn't want to mess that up by giving him attitude.

Sam loosens his muscles through force of will and the deep breathing technique that Dad taught him. He manages a smile and forces away that small voice in his head, the one that warns that maybe the real panic is from wanting Dean's mouth on his as more than a ruse and what it will do to him if that happens. Sam's not sure he can continue to separate pretense and reality if things get any more convoluted.

:::

When Dean doesn't meet him after his fifth period class, Sam tamps down the disappointment. The last hour of the day is for a scheduled pep rally and Sam was hoping Dean would meet him. It's not like Dean hasn’t already done his part. This school spirit crap was never Dean's scene anyway. Sam reminds himself that Dean is his brother, not his boyfriend, but his heart and his dick seem awfully happy with the thought of having Dean's attention like this.

Sam wanders into the gym, eyes scanning across jumbled heads. He jumps when arms go around him from behind. Sam grabs the arm wrapped around his chest ready to flip whoever it is. Dean's voice rumbles in his ear. “Relax, baby boy. It's just me.” Sam leans back into Dean. Maybe it isn't real, but he'll savor it while he can.

Dean puts his hand on Sam's shoulders and guides him down the bleacher steps, scant inches between them, Dean's heat bleeding into Sam's back. Dean takes a seat next to Clara who smiles at Sam. When Sam goes to sit beside Dean, he finds himself being maneuvered to the empty space in front of Dean instead. Being shoved around so easily shouldn't be so mind-numbing, but Sam's whole body flashes between hot then cold, shivers coursing up his spine. Dean scooches forward securing Sam between his legs, thighs bracketing Sam's shoulders, callused hands feather-scraping against the nape of his neck. Sam holds in the moan that tries to escape and wills his dick to remain passive.

Sam can't think, can't do anything but wallow in the sense of being surrounded by Dean. His brother touches him all the time, but not like this. This touch says that he belongs to Dean. It's possessive, and Sam likes it far more than he should. Sam pushes into the touch and leans his head back to catch Dean's eyes. Sam almost misses the hitch in Dean's breath, the clench of his hands, small furtive movements quickly contained. Power surges through Sam and his lips curl up.

The crowd roars as the cheer squad does some fancy maneuver to the deep bass beat, but Dean's eyes – dark black agates rimmed in gold and green –never waver from Sam's. Dean leans in and Sam stops breathing, breath held against the promise of a kiss.

Instead Dean leans to the side, warm words snaking across Sam's ear. “Do you know how many eyes are on us?” Dean's voice is rough and cracked, and his fingertips press into the meat of Sam's shoulders. Sam doesn't know if it's the lips against his ear or the thought of being watched, but Sam's thighs clench and arousal twines into his spine and makes his dick jump.

The spell is broken when the entire school rises to their feet. Even when voices climb and the bleachers roll with the stomps of feet, all Sam can feel are the ghosts of Dean's fingers pressing into his skin.

After the pep rally, Dean links a finger through Sam's belt loop and keeps him close, hips bumping then breaking apart as they leave school. Dean is greeted by several people as they exit school and more often than not the greetings include Sam. These are the same people that a day ago didn't know Sam existed. As much as Sam hates that he's only noticed because of Dean, he's thrilled that everyone thinks Dean is his. 

Sam shifts away from Dean's touch as they approach the Impala, but before regret can set in Sam finds himself with his back against the passenger window and Dean's hands bracketing his hips. Dean kicks his feet apart and shifts to slide between them, like this isn't awkward, like they've done it a thousand times before. 

Before Sam can draw breath and process what’s going on, Dean leans in, stubble rough against Sam's cheek, warm breath playing over his ear and says, “Relax. We’re just going to seal the deal. A little show for the crowd.” Dean's forearms brace against the window on either side of Sam's head and the noise of students flocking from school fade; Sam's surrounded by Dean, safe and secure in the cocoon his brother makes around him. “Follow my lead.” Those words allow Sam's muscles to go lax, familiar command switching on all the memories of every time Dean has said the same words and they’ve fallen into silent sync, Sam instinctively matching his moves to Dean's; a dance rehearsed until it's all muscle and no thought.

Dean noses under Sam's earlobe all hot breath and barely there touches. Sam caves to the sparks igniting across his skin and tips his head to the side giving Dean access to the bare skin along his neck. A chuckle vibrates from Dean's chest, right into Sam where they're pressed together and rumbles words against his neck. “Good boy, Sammy.”

 _Jesus_ Heated satisfaction curls heavy in Sam's gut at the praise, flows down his thighs and tightens his groin. It's all he can manage not to make some stupid pleading noise that will clue Dean into exactly how much Sam is into this. To cover the way he's falling apart, Sam puts his hands on Dean's waist, curves them up over taut muscle and clings hard to ground himself.

After an eternity of Dean's lips forging new territory across Sam's jaw, chin and cheeks, Dean finally moves his hands to Sam's shoulders and moves back. Sam's pretty sure that Dean's hands cupping his neck and jaw are the only thing holding him upright.

Dean's eyes scrape across his face, concern crinkling his forehead. “You okay, Sammy?” 

Sam nods, forces a small smile to his lips. It's enough reassurance and Dean steps back, grinning, nudges Sam's shoulder to get him moving.

Sam rounds the Impala and gets in on his side. Desire thrums in his blood and he's _okay_ has never been this far out of reach, not even the when he was on his knees retching up supper from the smell of burning golem after his first hunt.

Dean puts his arm across the seat and wraps a hand around Sam's neck. Sam fights the part of him that wants to drag Dean closer and survey his brother's mouth with his tongue.

As soon as they are out of sight of the school, Dean drops his hand and says speaks. “Well I think we have a good start.”

 _Right._ For a while there Sam had forgotten this was all a ruse. He looks out the window and struggles not to let his voice crack. “Yeah, thanks Dean. I appreciate it.” He schools his features and is thankful that the late afternoon shadows hide his eyes from Dean.

When they get back to the motel, Dean gets Chinese and finds a movie they can agree on. Ten hours ago this was everything Sam wanted. Now it's some kind of torture. Now that Sam's heard Dean's sex voice up close and personal, felt the softness of Dean's lips on the nape of his neck, had Dean hold him like he couldn't bear not to, sitting like this with only inches separating them on the couch is the worst kind of tease. Sam doesn't know how he'll bear it once they leave this town. One day was all it took to get him addicted to Dean's touch. All Sam wants is to pull Dean close and feel those hands on his skin but this is their real life, where they're brothers and nothing else.

Sam begs off early, claiming a headache. Dean turns off the TV and they each take one of the beds. Dean's out in seconds, the long day catching up to him.

Sam's awake a long time, most of it spent convincing himself that things can go back to the way they were before this pretense started and he'll be fine.

:::

Dean drapes his arm around Sam's shoulder as they walk into school, making sure to take the long way to Sam's locker so everyone gets to see that Sam and him are together.

They're passing the popular kids when Janelle's voice carries to him.

“You think that skinny dweeb is Dean's boyfriend. Please. Dean's just taking pity on him. Personally I think it's pretty great of Dean to take on a sad case like Sam. It makes him even more attractive and shows he has a good heart.”

The other girls nod as if Janelle has dropped some kind of wisdom on them and she beams.

“Besides, do you think that scrawny freshman has a chance against this?” She cups her breast and the other girls break out in laughter.

Sam comes to a halt so quick that Dean plows into his side and nearly takes them both to the floor. 

Fingers tighten hard enough to pinch around Dean's wrist and Sam's eyes narrow as he looks around the hallway. Seconds later Sam is drawing Dean down the hall, all eyes following their progress. Dean knows it's useless to try and reason with Sam when he's decided on a path, so he doesn't question where this is going.

Dean figures out Sam's plan when he sees the word _Utility_ in embossed letters on a narrow door. Sam swings the door open and shoves Dean inside. Sam follows and shuts them in darkness. The space is so tight Dean feels Sam's chest rise and fall against his own. Dean probably should have argued with Sam, because his mind is clouding with dirty thoughts and if his dick were any happier Sam would feel it.

“You know we're gonna have to do more than hide out in here to convince anyone that we were doing something dirty.” Dean's voice drops on the last two words and Sam shivers.

“What do you mean?”

Dean tries to parse Sam's voice. Sam doesn't sound frightened, but with only a sliver of light filtering under the edge of the door, Dean can only see a vague shape where Sam is.

Dean nudges closer, brings his hands to Sam's hips, runs his thumbs over the sharp cut of Sam's hip bones, ridged and prominent even through denim. Sam's innocence is a huge turn on. Virgins have never been Dean's thing, but the idea of debauching Sam is about the biggest turn on ever. Add in that everyone will know and the thrill multiplies until all Dean can think about is how far he can take this. What started as a way to one-up Sam has swung full circle and Dean has no idea who's driving the bus now; now it's all about want and heat and how damned desirable and tempting his little brother is. “Well you better go back out their looking like you've been thoroughly kissed.”

“What do you suggest?” Sam's voice is breathy and rough, like he's getting over a cold.

Dean reaches out in the dark, his hand bumping Sam's shoulder before grasping it. He flattens his hand,slides over collarbone, and cups Sam's neck. He thumbs down the corded muscle on Dean's neck. “I think a hickey right here ought to do the trick.”

Dean starts slow, a press of lips to Sam's jawbone. He shoves away the tumble swirl of fluttering thoughts about _why?_ and _morality_ and _wrong._ He focuses on Sam: the pulse stutter-racing under his palm, hot moist breath over his ear, the shush of cloth. All those things add up to nervous Sam. Dean won't acknowledge why, but he wants Sam to relax, wants him to enjoy this and be into it.

Dean grazes his lips along Sam's jaw until he's hovering right below Sam's mouth. As Sam leans in, trying to make the touch a kiss, Dean pulls back and says. “First things first.” His smile is not triumphant when he hears Sam's exhaled sigh. Okay, it is - but at least Sam can't call him an ass since Sam can't see it. Dean puts his hands on Sam's waist and un-tucks both shirts. He grazes his thumb over the exposed skin long enough for Sam to feel it, but not long enough to be taken as more than accidental. 

Sam's feet bump Dean's at the touch and he huffs, “What the hell, Dean?”

“Gotta go out there looking like I had my hands all over you, Sammy. Can't have my reputation as a ravisher of virgins demolished by our little ruse. Trust me I know all the tricks for making you look like you've been having way too much fun.” Dean unbuttons Sam's over shirt. “Leave it like that, and when we walk out start tucking in your t-shirt.” Dean goes for Sam's hair next. He runs his hands through it, tugs one way then the other.

“Ow.”

“Suck it up. That's barely a tickle.” Dean scritches at Sam's scalp. Sam relaxes, pushes into the touch and slips his foot between Dean's until their knees touch. “Okay, now bite your lips.”

“What?”

“Damn it, Sam. Haven't you at least made it to second base by now?”

Dean hears Sam swallow in the sudden still silence. His brother’s breath whooshes out with a slur of mumbled words that Dean has no hope of comprehending.

“Again, and try English this time”

“I've never kissed anyone.” 

Dean's quick wit drops away with his stomach. He's about to debauch his innocent younger brother. _He can't_

As if Sam has a psychic link to Dean's thoughts, his hands are out, scrabbling, one grabbing an elbow, the other landing at Dean's waist. “Don't. Please. It's not a big deal. I can't go out there and have them tease me about being a loser. I'm so tired of being the new kid and always someone’s target. I trust you, Dean. You're the only one I trust to do this.”

 _Jesus_ Sammy's got him so tied up, Dean'll never be free, doesn't want to be if he's honest. As always, he caves. “All right. Bite your lips until they feel puffy and sore. That's what it's like when you make out, your lips get all tingly and puffy and red.”

“Okay.” 

Dean can't see but his mind is gleefully supplying him images to match the sounds Sam makes, slick wet noises and Dean is chubbing up in his jeans as if he's the fifteen year old. He's not sure how long it goes on, but about the time Dean is sure he's going to take over and claim Sam's mouth, Sam says, “Done. I think it's okay.”

Dean shouldn't, but his arm is ahead of his thoughts, navigating the dark and guiding his hand to Sam's face. His palm finds Sam's jaw and Dean runs a thumb over Sam's lip, pausing at the corner. The little groan Sam gives shouldn't be so hot. It's nothing in the greater scheme of his experience, but Dean hasn’t been this turned on since he exchanged handjobs with Jason in the sixth grade. Before Dean can move his thumb, there’s a rough wet swipe over it and it's his turn to groan. _Damn._ Sam's a fast learner. Surprise causes Dean to stumble, crashing into a mop bucket.

Sam catches him before he falls. “Smooth.”

Dean hears the laugh in Sam's voice, but stays silent; pissing Sam off is not what’s he's going for here.

Dean pulls Sam in. This time, he's loose under Dean's hands, presses in, chests colliding. Both of them expel breathy sounds at the contact. Sam's hands fold over Dean's hips and Dean cups Sam's head, tips it back. Sam submits so easily, swaying into the touch and stretching his neck; it's all Dean can do not to moan and hump his little brother's leg.

A breathy little, “oh,” comes from Sam when Dean presses his lips to that spot on his neck – the same spot that always gets Dean's motor revving – right over the tendon. He swipes his tongue across salty skin and Sam shivers. Large hands move up Dean's chest to his shoulders and Dean wraps a hand around Sam's waist to steady him. Sam's arms slip around Dean's neck, fingers teasing the hair at Dean's nape. Each small touch is a current, electric across Dean's skin and biting down on Sam's neck is the only thing that grounds Dean, keeps him from grabbing Sam's hips and grinding. 

Dean worries at Sam's skin alternating between licks and bites. Sam gives no hint that he doesn't want this; Dean would stop immediately if that was the case, but the way Sam clings, slender arms tight around his neck, mouth open emitting little kitten whimpers, and hips shifting tells Dean that Sam is good – better than actually.

Dean pulls back and Sam twists; their lips brush.  
The bell rings and they both jump, knocking noses.

Laughter sounds loud in the tiny space, but there's no time for embarrassment or awkward conversations. Dean opens the door, shoves Sam in front him. Sam starts tucking in his shirt and eyes everywhere are turning to check them out. Dean isn't paying attention. Instead he's looking at Sam's neck.

The mark he left is an angry red, turning to purple at the edges. Indents are impressed where Dean bit down. Dean waits for guilt and shame to race in, maybe some common sense at least, but instead all he gets is a low satisfied curl in his gut, better than his dad's approval or putting a clip of bullets through the same hole.

Sam's hand slides from Dean's, fingers trailing a heated path on his palm. Sam's smiling and says something. Dean nods, but doesn't really make sense of the words. His head is too full. Spinning realizations and shiny truths are paper bits whirling into a single awareness.

He's in love with his little brother.

::::

Sam doesn't see Dean until the final bell. He exits from Geometry class and a hand snatches at his wrist. Sam almost pulls the person in to put a sparring move on them, but then he sees Dean's grin. Stopping isn't possible and Sam lurches forward, falling against Dean. 

“You don't have to throw yourself at me, Sammy.”

Annoyance floods into Sam. Knowing they're being watched, Sam decides to play it for everything he's got. He looks up at Dean, bats his eyelashes and replies, “Your just so hot I can't help myself.” He's loud enough to be overheard and Dean's ears turn pink. “Did you wait so you could carry my books?” 

Dean's scowl is turned on him, but Sam knows Dean well enough he won't back down from the challenge even if his cheeks now match his ears. “Sure thing, princess. Hand them over.” 

Sam steps away and shrugs off his backpack and hands it to Dean.

Dean sags under the weight before recovering. “What have you got in here, the entire library?”

“They're called books. You might know that if you ever read one.”

All the emotion is gone from Dean's face, a blank canvas shuffled on, quickly followed by a cocky smile. “When you're as pretty as me, you don’t have to be smart, Sam.”

 _Crap._ Sam knows he messed up. Somehow, he'd never realized that all the times he's teased Dean since he dropped out of school have stung his brother and it's not like he can address the topic directly. Dean doesn't do that kind of communication. Sam will have to find some other way to let Dean know he really doesn't think he's dumb. Hell, Dean's one of the smartest people Sam knows.

“Guess I never knew what hit me, since you seem to have both.”

Dean blinks, gets that look he has on hunts when he's assessing a potential monster. Maybe Sam laid it on a bit thick. Dean's smile slides back on, even brighter, but more genuine and he says, “Damn straight.” He slaps Sam on the ass. “Get moving. Places to go.”

Dean slings the backpack over one shoulder and loops Sam in under the other arm. Sam sighs into it, perfect fit, never needs to be anywhere else and he's content to stay in the circle of Dean's arm forever.

Dean nods to a few people, but his attention is on Sam. He regales him with a tale of science gone wrong and soon they’re both laughing.

Several students are hanging out in the parking lot, but Sam doesn't have eyes for anyone but Dean. They get to the car and Sam's jolted back to awareness of their surroundings. He pulls away to go around the passenger side of the car, but is stopped short by Dean's hand around his wrist.

“You want to put on a show, Sammy?”

Sam doesn't know what to say, swallows against the wasp's nest in his throat and manages a nod. 

Dean tugs at Sam, tiny incremental pulls until Sam is standing between Dean's splayed legs, reverse of last time. They're not touching except for their shoes and the brand of Dean's hand cuffed around his wrist, but Sam is hot all over and his heart's thumping a rat-a-tat-tat pulse through his bloodstream. He wonders if anyone has ever died from a kiss, heart busting from their chest with too much excitement. Sam huffs out a laugh – even if that had happened it's likely a hunter had come along and done in the kisser thinking he or she was a succubus. Dean questions Sam with an eyebrow raise. Sam shakes his head. Now is not the time to bring up hunting or anything else that brings to mind Dad.

Sam's holding his breath and jumps up a few inches when a deep voice cuts in from behind him.

“Mr. Campbell.” It's Miss Slevinski, the Vice Principal.

Dean straightens from his slouch and bites away a cocky grin. Sam knows it's for his benefit. Dean loves nothing more than poking at authority, but he won't do it if Sam is likely to reap the reprisal. “Yes, ma'am.”

Slevinski crosses her arms across her chest. “We have a strict policy against P.D.A here Mr. Campbell. I will assume ignorance on this as you are new to Jefferson, but you and your,” Slavinski's lip curls up as he darts a glance at Sam, “boyfriend need to find a more private location for these shenanigans.”

Heat rises in Sam and it's not embarrassment, but pure rage. Students violate the P.D.A. policy all the damn time and Sam's never seen one of them being reprimanded. It's a clear case of discrimination. Sam makes a slight move, planning to say that very thing, but Dean catches his eye, gives the slightest nod, indicating that Sam should shut the hell up. Sam follows the silent directive, but he's not happy about it.

They get into the Impala under Slavinski's critical eye. The doors creak closed and Dean says, “Careful, Sammy, it'd be a damn shame if your expression froze on bitch-face number twenty-four. It's not your most flattering expression.”

“Fuck you, Dean.”

Dean's lips tip up, teeth flash and then he's laughing out loud. Nothing's funny, but seeing that joy on Dean, Sam can't help chase after it with his own laughter.

:::

Dean flips pancakes, concentrating on making them golden. It's not quite enough to keep his thoughts from chasing themselves. Weekdays have settled into a routine of pretense: touches, lingering glances, pet names and banter that makes anyone watching want to retch for the saccharine taste left behind.

Usually Dean would be right in the middle of that group. He's never been one for public displays of affection or gestures of the romantic kind, but with Sam he can't help himself. Any excuse to put hands and mouth on Sam is an opportunity he doesn't pass up. He goes out of the way to get Sam that fancy coffee he likes in the morning and he picked up some art film Sam had been grousing about seeing at the video store. The smiles and dark looks from under bangs he gets from Sam are better than any quickie he's ever had from anyone else. It's not like he's really doing anything different either. He's always done a little extra to get Sam's attention and approval, but now the gestures are laced with an undercurrent of arousal and anticipation that are entirely new.

Sam's still asleep and Dean's okay with that. He's not certain how to handle: running, target practice, cleaning the weapons, and sparring. _God, sparring._ Dean may have to find a reason to blow that one off or he might knock Sam to the ground and rub-off on him like the horny teen he really isn't anymore. He should have more control, but Sammy has always been the one thing that blows Dean wide open and leaves his insides hanging out.

Dean tucks the last of the pancakes into a hand towel and slips them into the microwave to keep them warm. He takes the bacon from the mini-fridge, his head still stuck on Sammy. The thing is, Dean kind of likes this pretense, and by like he means totally fucking loves it. With anyone else, Dean would have sealed the deal in the utility closet and moved on to the next flavor of the day. Sammy's different. Not only brother different, and this isn't a real relationship different, and boy different – Dean's never dated a guy – but while Dean is, no question about it, sexually on edge, he doesn't think about maybe answering one of the inviting looks he gets from other potential partners and he hasn't used his hand either. Dean's never had feelings like this before, like he's full of carbonation, bubbling, waiting for the right moment to explode and something about the denial makes the pleasure all the more exquisite. For the first time Dean gets why people might be into orgasm denial. Of course, this isn't some erotic foreplay that will end in orgasms. This is him doing Sam a favor.

Except Dean has kind of started wondering if he took a turn somewhere, salted and burned pretense, because Dean wants this to be real so bad, it's a scratch and burn on his skin, a squeeze in his chest, and it's sending every rational thought right off the cliff edge to a fiery death.

 _Fuck._ Dean snorts. _Fiery deaths indeed._ He dumps the blackened bacon in the trash and lays out more strips in the still sizzling pan.

The meaty strips pop and snap in the pan and Dean focuses on them, makes sure they don't get too dark, but are still crispy, the way Sammy likes them. Still, part of his brain skips to the evening. A movie date with his brother. How fucked up is that? And yet, all Dean can imagine is all the little ways he can drive Sam nuts: brushes of hands, an arm around his shoulder. He hopes it's one of those theaters where the arms move up and he can pull Sam in close. 

Dean hasn't failed to observe every hitch in Sam's breath, the way his pupils swallow his irises, the hand that sneaks down to adjust his filling dick. Sure, part of that could be that Sam's a horny teenager. The wind could get him off, but Dean can't help but think part of it's him and he can't help but test it out, pushing those boundaries.

A sigh circles around him, deep and breathy as Dean flips the bacon and lays paper plates and plastic forks on the counter. Attempts to pinpoint how his feelings have changed are a spectacular failure. Where _can't, won’t, and incest_ should be are vast empty spaces that Dean fills up with machinations for keeping Sam on edge, filling him with want and finding more excuses to touch him. The idea that this is wrong can't even be forced; Dean must have bound, gagged and burned 'wrong' alive with the last monster he killed. The cracks of logic that Dean's using as reason to seduce his little brother are morphing into craters and canyons. Dean's not even sure his feelings for Sammy have changed; he suspects that maybe he's been subconsciously waiting for Sammy to catch up with him, finally to be in a place where they both want this. 

“Dean.”

Dean jumps, spins. The bacon slides up the curve of the pan before Dean manages to stabilize and shift it back. Sam's got this smirk on his face and Dean supposes he earned it. It's not very often anyone can catch him off guard like that.

Dean smiles back, drinks in the sight of Sam, hair rumpled, sleep pants hanging low off one hip as he shuffles to the mini-fridge. More skin is revealed as Sam bends over and grabs one of the V-8s Dean bought from the vending machine. _Jesus_ One strip of bared skin and he's ready to fall on his knees and worship his brother, count his moles with his tongue until they're both naked and desperate.

The pop of the tab on the V-8 snaps Dean out of his perverted reverie and he slides the bacon onto the paper plates and sets them on the small table that's secured to the wall with bolts. Sam gets the butter and syrup and sits down while Dean retrieves the pancakes.

They pile pancakes onto their plates in silence, feet and knees bumping in the small space until they're both comfortable. Dean's never given their closeness much thought; they've shared breakfast in even tighter places more times than he can count, but now his skin is aware of every place Sam is pressed against him. The wiggle of Sam's toes vibrates into his cells until it hits the base of his spine and the air is alive with how aware he is of Sam.

Sam's cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are intent on his food, eyes glued to his plate, fork sweeping food into his mouth.

The phone rings. They both jump, move apart and Sam snaps up to answer it. “Yes, sir,” he says into the receiver.

So it's Dad, not that Dean couldn't already tell. Sam's jaw is tight and thrust out, eyes sparking, but his tone as he repeats the same phrase at each pause is still respectful. Dean shoves away his plate. Why does Sam have to be such a pain in the ass where Dad is concerned? He makes everything harder for all of them. Dean understands; Sam has things he wants that don't go along with Dad's plans, but outright defiance seldom wins him the battle.

Sam punches a button to end the call and glares at the phone like it's done him a personal offense. He slams it onto the hook on the wall.

“You done?” Dean gestures at the plates. Sam's face scrunches up and Dean sweeps the plates into the trash. He bags the bacon and pancakes. They can re-heat them later. Done, he turns to Sam. “So, what'd dad have to say?” 

“He reminded me that we have P.T. today and tomorrow. Also, he wants me to research some Greek artifact at the library. He wants you to head up to Compton and pick up some specialized herbs from a soothsayer and get them in overnight mail. The person only takes cash. He said he'd send some more money and told me to do what you told me to.”

Dean snorts. “As if. I'll drop you at the library on the way out of town. You can take the bus back if I'm not here before you're done. You got your cell?” Sam nods. Dean can't make out the expression, but he knows Sam is mulling something over. “Spit it out, Sam.”

Sam scuffs his shoe against the tile and one closed fist is bumping against the wall. “What about the movie?” 

“Not a problem. It doesn't start until eight. If either of us gets held up, we'll do P.T. tomorrow, okay? Don't worry, I won't let you look bad in front of your schoolmates.” The last is bitter, not the light aside Dean was trying for, but Sam doesn't seem to notice.

Sam's face lights with delight, dimples going double deep. “Cool.”

:::

Dean gets back around six. The guy wanted more cash than he had so he stopped at a college town on the way and hustled up a couple hundred between some pool and darts. The bartender also offered to blow him; Dean declined. The guy was someone Dean would have gone for in a second before; curly brown hair, slender hips and long limbs. The resemblance isn't lost on him. He floors the pedal and loses his thought in the rumble of the engine and grip of the tires.

Sam's waiting on the library steps, the brick edifice framing his moping crouch. His head lifts and he straightens when Dean gets close. There are a couple of girls from school standing at the entrance. Dean doesn't recognize them, probably sophomores or juniors. They dart looks between Sam and Dean, breathy giggles and quiet words exchanged too low to make out what they're saying.

Sam rolls his eyes as he rounds the car and Dean swallows his smile. Just because he doesn't know these girls, doesn't mean they won't gossip and make Sam's life miserable. Sam slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door. Dean fists the front of his shirt and drags him in slow. Sam's eyes widen, but then he looks towards the girls and gets with the program. His lids fall and he licks across his bottom lip. _Holy shit._ His little brother is a fucking Lolita and the fact that Sammy probably doesn't even know how tempting he is makes the situation exponentially hotter.

When Sam's close Dean brings both hands to Sam's face and lays his cheek against Sammy's. From behind and above it will appear as if he's swallowing Sam down. That thought brings with it images Dean cannot handle right at that moment. So he starts talking. “Can you see them? Are they buying it?”

“Yeah.” Sam's voice is deep and it rumbles through Dean slinking down his chest into his belly in hot curls. When did Sam's voice become a turn-on? “They're sort of crouching to look, but totally trying to pretend like they're not.” Sam chuckles and moist heat flows across Dean's skin, tickling his ear. Hands press against his chest and curl around his neck. Sam digs his fingers into the short hairs of Dean's nape and Dean bends his head, seeking more of that comforting, soothing, arousing caress. Sam obliges, rubbing further up into his hair.

A car pulls up behind them, horn honking. The girls tumble down the steps, eyes on Sam and Dean who are pulling apart. “Well, it should take less than a day for the whole school to know we were making out at the library,” Sam says.

Dean glances over his shoulder. Both girls are staring as they move towards their ride. One has a hand over her mouth and is red enough to compete with a stoplight. Her friend is more composed, almost leering as she throws them a wink in passing.

Laughter draws Dean's attention back to Sam. Sam's laughing with his entire self, body convulsing, hands clutching his ribs. Dean would do a lot more than play pretend boyfriends if it makes Sam joyous. Even if it all ends when they leave, even if it breaks his fucking heart, Dean would do it all again to see Sam loose and alive and filled with happiness.

Back home, they eat a quick dinner and run their six miles. Sam takes the first shower while Dean gets a bag from the trunk. He stopped on the way back into town at the Salvation Army, picked out a couple of shirts for him and Sam. They're stuff is all clean, but it's looking ragged and worn.

Dean sets out the plain white button down he got for himself. Sam's is the same in a shade of sky blue. Sammy will look good enough to eat. Hunting requires mostly camouflage colors, so neither of them have much color in their wardrobe. Dad doesn't see the need for frivolous expenditures.

Sam comes out of the shower in a white tee and boxer-briefs. Dean rushes past him scribbling out the visual imprints of Sam dripping wet and wiping out the thoughts of what he'd like to do with a wet Sam. The lack of privacy has never been this fraught before.

Dean struggles into his own under things, skin damp. Normally they both don't bother; it's a pain to dress in a too small room, cloth clinging from steam. Dean doesn't know why Sam is doing the modesty dance, but Dean's reasons are easy. No way is he popping wood where it's obvious. Knowing Sam, he'd want to talk about it; that's just a world of no.

When Dean walks out, rubbing his hair dry with a towel, Sam holds up both shirts. “Thanks for this. Which one's for me?”

It's not like Dean didn't know, after all he picked the damn shirts out, but it hits him for the first time that Sam is out-growing him, that the kid he changed diapers for, and taught fighting to, and steadied a gun for, is almost an adult. Dean rocks on his feet, can't meet Sam's questioning stare. “The blue one.” Dean snatches the white one and slips it over his arms. He digs through his duffel for his best jeans and wiggles into them, skin still damp. 

He turns to find Sam's eyes riveted to where his ass was just seconds before. That gaze freezes Dean's hands mid-button; his brother's eyes travel up his bare chest. 

The need to break the gathering storm of tension snaps Dean from his motionless stance. He waggles his eyebrows as he buttons the shirt. “Like what you see, Sammy?” 

Sam grins, looks at the ground and in an un-telegraphed move he flings a pillow straight at Dean's head. “I'm not foolish enough to inflate your ego, asshat. If I did there wouldn't be anywhere for me to sleep.”

Dean bats the pillow away. “Nice one. Let's roll.”

The sign of the theater rises up taller than the rest of the buildings on the main drive. The old Art Deco letters sputter, neon flickering off and on. There's only one movie. It shows at eight and again at eleven. The sidewalk is brimming with what appears to be about three-quarters of the town – mostly teens and pre-teens formed into cliques and clusters.

Dean gets into line and pulls Sam in front of him, wraps his arms around Sam's waist and tucks his chin over his brother's shoulder. Sam sighs into the embrace, his hands covering Dean's. So easy, so natural and so, so good.

The contentment drops a notch when Janelle spots them and comes running up with her bestie and her current football-player-arm-candy. 

“So you showed. Wasn't sure you two would make it a whole week.” She only makes eye contact with Dean. “I can't imagine what a knowledgeable senior would have in common with a freshman.” The way she licks her lips leaves little room to doubt what she means by knowledgeable. Her hulk of a date seems clueless to the flirting. Figures, he's all bulk, no brains. Dean imagines he's easier to manipulate that way, but Dean has a string of girls behind him longer than the line of the movie theater. He's seen this game played by girls that would eat Janelle whole.

Dean slides his hands from under Sam's, one sliding down to his belt where he hooks a thumb and slips a couple fingers into the waist band. The other hand moves up, covering Sam's pounding heart. Dean knows exactly how possessive the embrace looks. “Oh I don't know. There's so much satisfaction in teaching a newbie all my moves and Sam's a very good pupil.” Dean’s voice and position are so heavy with innuendo that Janelle's girlfriend blushes.

Janelle's mouth twists at the corner and she turns to Sam. “You shouldn't be displaying yourself like that. This is a family place.”

Sammy turns his head and looks down the line and Dean does the same. Several couples are in far more intimate entanglements than Sam and him. 

“Doesn't look like we're out of the norm.” Sam says, voice a slow roll of challenge.

“But, but,” Janelle sputters, “but you two are –” Hands flapping around, she turns pleading eyes to Dean.

Dean raises an eyebrow, but stays silent. The quiet stretches, reaching past awkward and Janelle spins on her Mary Janes without another word; her minions following behind her. The best friend sneaks one quick glance back and her cheeks go rosy again with a deep blush.

Dean chuckles into Sam's neck and Sam shivers, but a grin is painting his mouth as well. Dean really wants to lick it off and find out what a giggling, grinning Sammy tastes like.

They get their tickets and enter the crowded theater. Dean buys a large soda and popcorn to share. Big heavy curtains cover the screen and art deco style fixtures and murals decorate the walls. They walk down the aisle and up the stairs to the balcony, hands clasped. 

Dean isn't really surprised to see that the back two rows are mostly filled. Janelle sits in the middle surrounded by a ring of her cronies, the outer seats are filled with people that Dean is sure she bribed or threatened as they are not part of her regular group. Dean has to admire her spunk and determination. Even if he were single he wouldn't touch her. A girl like that will have you in front of the alter, her daddies gun to your back faster than you can undo her bra clasp.

Dean picks a row four in front of the high school voyeurs. In spite of his disdains for couples that can't keep from copping a feel every thirty feet, Dean's always had a thing for showing off. The idea of showing off how much of Sam he has and how he can make Sam melt is headier than he imagined. This ruse with Sam is messing up how he sees relationships and is pinging kinks he didn't even know he had. Dean shoves thoughts of the future and how he's going to cope with being just brothers again far away from his thoughts; he stays in the moment, determined to keep after Sam and maybe they can both have something they want for a change. If Sam rebuffs him, he'll deal with that when it happens.

The seats are old-fashioned with metal arms and worn ribbed velvet seats. The springs poke at his ass and he shifts trying to find a spot that's not torturous. At least the place has modern cup holders, so Dean puts the soda on the other side of Sam, because Sam will inhale most of the popcorn and the better part of the soda.

As soon as the lights drop, Dean drapes an arm around Sam. He can't pull him in because of the stupid armrests, but he weaves his fingers into Sam's hair. Sam's shoulders shudder under his arm and his brother lets go of a breathy sigh.

Dean is curious about whether Sam is nervous or turned on by being observed, wonders if his brother's wires are as twisted as his own. He uses the hand not currently petting Sam's hair to tug at the collar of Sam's shirt, pops open the top two buttons, and runs his thumb over Sam's collarbone. Goosebumps show up in the flickering light from the screen. Dean leans in and presses his lips to the juncture of Sam's neck, kisses up until he hits that spot behind Sam's ear. Sam whimpers, the tiniest noise. Pride and want fight for space inside Dean, expanding in his chest, a tangible pressure against his ribs. “You know everyone up there is watching us, right?”

Sam groans and rolls his head back against Dean's arm, turns and makes eye contact. Even in the low light Dean can see the way Sam's mouth has gone slack and his eyes have darkened. Sam answers with a nod and his tongue darts out over his bottom lip. One hand curls into Dean's shirt and tugs. Check. Sam is definitely into a little exhibitionism. Relief floods through Dean; he needed Sam to want this, be into it. Maybe first kisses shouldn't be given by your brother, but at least he can make sure it's desired and memorable.

The invitation is in every inch of Sam, but Dean still needs to be certain. Dean cups Sam's jaw and brings his mouth close enough that his own lips dampen from Sam's breathing. “You sure about this, Sammy?”

Sam answers by closing the space between them.

Dean means to keep it slow and soft and brief. He should've known better. Nothing with Sammy has ever been easy. Why this should be any different? Sam's mouth under his is wet and sloppy, but so damn open and passionate Dean's swept under and filled with want.

He tilts Sam's head for a better angle, whispers into Sam's mouth, “Slow down, tiger.”

Sam ignores him, growls and pulls Dean closer. Dean gives up on slow and tentative. He swipes his tongue against Sam's bottom lip and pulls him tight with the arm around his shoulder. The armrest is digging into both of them, but Dean doesn't give a flying fuck. Sam's making greedy little sounds and twining his tongue with Dean's and it blots out everything else as adrenaline and arousal sweep him under.

Dean doesn't know how long they make out, minutes, eons, not long enough. It will never be long enough, but breathing is becoming necessary. Dean clamps his teeth to Sam's lower lip as he draws away, scraping over tender flesh, and basks in the guttural moan it pulls from Sam. Dean can't remember ever wanting someone as much as he want Sam right now. His dick is straining against his zipper and all he can think about when he looks at Sam's pink, swollen mouth is how good it would look stretched around his cock.

Dean's used to being in tight control, guiding the action and never, ever losing track of his surroundings or the consequences of what he's doing, but Sam makes him crazy, draws him in until focus and attention are sucked dry. Sam's cracked him open and made a home in all the spaces left behind and its left Dean dizzy, craving nothing more than to get naked as quick as possible.

“You want to get out of here?” Dean doesn't recognize his own voice, rough and scraped raw and he doesn't mean for it to sound like an invitation, but if he has to paw at Sam for one more minute it's going to go further than either one of them planned and the back rows are going to be watching live porn.

Dean doesn't wait for an answer. He stands up, grabs at Sam's shoulders until he gets a clue and rises too. There are catcalls, whistles and a couple of slurs in the air as they make their exit. Dean drags Sam by the arm until they're out the door, cool air pouring over heated skin. They're both breathing heavy.

They walk to the car and Dean tries to stumble out an explanation, between his dick throbbing with the need to come and his hands itching to touch under Sam's clothes. “I – we, shouldn’t – we should go somewhere with lights and kids or old people.”

Relief is all over Sam as he nods in agreement, hair flipping into his eyes. Apparently Sam isn't any more ready than Dean to take this thing to the next obvious place.

They get in the car and Dean turns over the ignition, but hesitates before putting it in gear. They can't go back to the motel. No way in hell he can keep it platonic with two beds waiting to be rumpled, and anywhere isolated or alone or dark is out of the question. There's a loud, noisy pizza/arcade place down the street. Dean asks, even though they finished off an entire casserole before leaving, “Pizza?”

Sam stares out the window, hand pressing his dick down. “Starved.”

It takes one large pizza, a beer and ten quarters dumped into a racing game for Dean's erection to subside. 

Hours later, when Sammy is sound asleep, Dean's hands still itch with the need to touch.

:::

Two weeks into their deception and Sam tells himself that he's fine, that it's routine now, doesn't mean anything, like two people in an impromptu play. Sam totally ignores that he's floating, heart light, smile wide and the best part of it all is that Dean hasn't groused, teased or given him any shit about having to play the boyfriend.

The algebra problems on the table in front of him are far less thought provoking than the way Dean's been behaving.

Yesterday at lunch when Terry – one of the basketball jocks – had called them fags, Dean had leaned in and muttered something in the kid's ear. Even under dark skin Terry had gone pale and stepped back. He stuttered an apology to Sam and taken off in the other direction. Dean had grabbed Sam's hand, rubbed circles into his palm and asked if Sam was okay. Sam didn't even know what to do with that. He was tempted to tell Dean he wasn't some kind of damsel in distress, but the open, vulnerable, proud look on Dean's face stopped him short. Sam couldn't bring himself to say anything to strip that from Dean; it cut too close, would've been too much like what Dad did even when Dean had performed a task perfectly. Sam wasn't going to dent his brother's sense of self-worth anymore than it already had been.

That reminds Sam, he's been kicking around an idea in his head, but knows he's got to approach Dean just right or things will go sideways. Then he won't only be out a boyfriend, but could potentially end up with a fist in his face.

“Dean?”

Dean looks up from the chemistry homework in his lap. The evening sun is slanting through the shades casting stripes across Dean's legs where they're propped on the coffee table and making the hairs on his legs glow gold. For a second Sam contemplates what he'd do if Dean were really his boyfriend, but he shoves the thought away. Tenting his shorts would be beyond awkward and he has another agenda in mind anyway.

“Yeah?” 

Sam taps his pencil against his papers and decides to be direct. “You ever thought about finishing your diploma?”

“Sam.” It's one word, but it might as well be a treatise on all the reasons Dean quit school for hunting, bordered by a moat of warning.

Sam jumps up from the table folder in hand. “Hear me out.” He plops down next to Dean and opens the folder with Dean's school records.

Sam grabs the first paper and goes to flip it when Dean's palm spreads wide across the page. “Where'd you get this, Sam?”

Sam smirks. “You and Dad aren't the only Winchesters who can break, enter and steal.”

Dean snorts. “Really? Thought you were too good to go breaking the law, Sammy?”

Sam shrugs. For Dean, he can't imagine much he wouldn't do, but he'd rather run another six miles of PT every morning than say it out loud. Sam shoves Dean's hand away and flips to the sheet showing Dean's units. “Look. I added everything up and if you get an A in chemistry, pass shop, and manage a C or better in English you'll have enough credits to graduate here.”

“Why's this matter so much to you?” Dean's gaze cuts into Sam as if he can suss out some underlying manipulation or hidden agenda behind Sam's request.

Sam has given this a lot of thought. “There's a lot more things you could do on the hunt without raising suspicions. Remember last year when we were up in Hayward and you had to be a janitor instead of enrolling for courses at the junior college. It made the hunt harder than if you could've enrolled. Also, Dad had to take that crap job when we were hunting that selkie because the only place in town that was hiring wouldn't hire you with just a GED. Also you could take some college classes that could help with hunting – like forensic science or profiling.” Before Dean can bring up an argument Sam continues. “When you have to work you could earn more money and,” Sam takes a breath and brings out his trump card, “imagine how glad Dad will be when you can take some of the worry from him about leaving us alone.”

Sam knows it's a dirty, low blow, but he learned from Dad and Dean to never fight with less than all your weapons and Sam knows how much Dean strives to impress Dad. Sam opens his mouth to throw out all the reasons why Dean can do it without it interfering with anything else. He'd nearly flipped out when he'd seen Dean's grades - nearly all straight As with a smattering of Bs. Sam can't understand what made Dean give up on his dreams with grades like that and only a few classes short of a diploma, but he's not going to let it lie. Dean may not think he can do anything except hunt, but Sam is going to do his damnedest to see that Dean can at least choose.

Before he can get started, Dean's hand clamps over his mouth. “Enough. I'll think about it.”

That's all Sam can ask for and he grins against Dean's palm.

:::

Sam takes his tray toward the table where he sits with Dean. Clara, and Fred brought sack lunches and decided to sit outside now that the days are getting nicer. Sam could've gone with them and brought Dean along, but he needs a few minutes to talk to Dean alone.

Sam sits down. Dean doesn't look up from his love affair with his burger and fries.

“I think you should break up with me.”

Dean's hand hesitates on the way to his mouth, eyes wide and puzzled. “Mmnph?”

Sam sighs and plucks a droopy fry off Dean's tray. Correctly interpreting Dean's masticated _why_ Sam answers, “Next weekend is the Spring Fling. 

“Mmm.” Dean swallows, raises and eyebrow. “You got a better offer or something?” Dean's voice is flat, missing the teasing note Sam expects, but he doesn't have time to think about it.

He wants to get this settled with Dean and prepare for his public humiliation. “Dean.” Sam knows his face is twisted into that expression his brother refers to as his bitch face, but considering how often Dean is the cause of it, he must not hate it as much as he lets on. “It's a dance.”

“Aw, Samantha, you afraid I'll think you look fat in your frilly pink dress?”

No, Sam's afraid Dean will lose his cool when he finds out it's a themed dance. “There's something else.” Janelle had swept by his locker with a flier and made sure that he knew no one would be admitted unless they conformed to the theme.

Dean's finished and Sam's lost his appetite. Without talking about it, they both get up and head to the trash. After dumping his tray, Dean hip checks Sam. “Well? Speak up, lame-o.”

Sam scowls. “I think I preferred sweetheart or babe.”

“Yeah, well, when there are no bystanders, I'm not going to use sweet-nothings, asswipe.”

Sam bites back the retort hovering on his tongue. If there's even a sliver of a chance Dean will go along with this, Sam doesn't want to ruin it.  
“It's an eighties theme.” 

Dean stops and Sam runs into his back. Dean turns and brings him in close. Sam realizes they must have an audience even if he can't see them. Dean leans in. “Kids at eleven 'o' clock.” Dean doesn't do anything but keep talking in a low whisper, nonsense about his English assignment. Sam wonders what kind of fucked up he is that the purr of Dean's voice muttering about Thoreau and writing in third person narrator is enough to make his groin tighten and heat flare in his cheeks. 

Dean pulls back, stubble brushing across Sam's cheek. It's all Sam can do to not to start begging. Dean doesn't release him completely, hands still gripping his forearms and Sam's content to stay close.

“So an eighties theme?” Dean asks. Sam can't read the expression on Dean's face and he can't bear to face the rejection head on, so he looks down at the floor. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't take you to Spring Fling?”

The words are soft and un-Deanish. Sam's head snaps up, eyes searching Dean's face. Dean's eyes are as soft as his words, warm and affection filled. Sam's not quite sure how it happened, but his hands are spread across Dean's chest and they're sharing breath. Dean's going to kiss him, without an audience, _maybe because he wants to?_

Of course, the universe can’t give Sam even one small break. The bell rings. Dean's hands slide down his arms, caressing his hands before letting go. “Don't worry, Sammy. I'll take care of everything. You trust me right?”

When it comes to dressing up for a dance, Sam doesn't. He really, really doesn't, but he says, “Sure, whatever.” It's not like Sam's exactly thrilled with the idea of wearing some stupid outfit either and knowing Dean he'll pick something sure to make Sam feel awkward and uncomfortable.

Dean rushes down the hall and Sam goes to his own class. 

History goes in one ear and out the other as he ponders what Dean could be up to.

:::

The night of the dance Sam comes back to the hotel to find the beds full of things he's never seen before. The door slams shut with the force of Sam's hand against it. Dean's sitting on the bed, sorting through a bag of items that Sam thinks might be some kind of torture devices. 

His eyes skip over the beds and land on the lime green skirt. It's splashed across the orange comforter, and looks like it's made out of some kind of netting that might hit Sam at mid-thigh if that. “Oh hell no. No way I'm wearing a dress, Dean.” His voice does not crack and go up an octave on the last syllable, not at all.

Dean smirks, relaxes back against the headboard, legs splayed. His hands drop to his hips, framing his crotch and he swipes his tongue across his lips. Eyes hooded, Dean says, “Who says it's for you?”

Sam opens his mouth; shuts it. He's got nothing, brain shorted at the thought of Dean in a skirt. He imagines bow legs topped by the skirt and Dean 's lashes thick and dark. He can't wrap his mind around it, but his dick seems on board with the idea twitching with interest, not that it's getting any of that as this is all pretend anyway.

The look on Dean's face is screaming triumph and for a second Sam thinks he's being played, but there's something deeper underneath that. Eyes dark and intense on Sam, Dean squirms on the bed and the bells in Sam's head land on the answer, arousal. Dean likes the idea, is turned on by it.

Dean shrugs, “So?” 

“Huh? Guess I said that out loud.” Sam sits on the bed, his knees unstable as his entire world view of Dean changes, mostly because he believed he knew everything there was to know about Dean. The same Dean who came back bragging from dates and detailing his sexual exploits. Sam would remember if cross-dressing had ever come up.

“Look, I don't have to if it bothers you that much. I got some back up clothes in case.” All the languid sensuality is gone: Dean is sitting up rigid, face guarded. 

“No that's – ” Sam stops, not sure what to say. 

“What?” Dean's shields drop, giving Sam a chance to form an answer. He knows if he denies this part of Dean that the topic will be closed forever.

Heat is crawling up Sam's neck, over his ears. “It's hot.” The words are smashed together. Thank god Dean doesn't make him repeat them.

His brother nods. “Well, that’s settled then.”

Dean tosses a wad of fabric at Sam and he catches it on instinct. “Go get dressed.”

Sam frowns. “It's only four. 

Dean shakes his head, superiority radiating in all directions. “Sammy, Sammy, we'll be lucky to get out of here by seven. I ordered pizza and you should be dressed by the time it gets here. We have a lot to do.”

Sam shrugs. This is Dean's call and he's just going along for the ride. Sam head's into the bathroom. He takes a quick shower, wraps a towel around his waist and holds up the garments Dean gave him. “Dean!” He shouts it as he goes through the door.

For the second time in an hour Sam's brain ceases all function. Dean is in nothing but his boxer briefs, one foot up on the counter. He's shaving his legs. Sam wills his dick to stay still, thinks about sweaty jock straps and Uncle Bobby in a speedo. He doesn't even know why it's sexy. Not only does he have a thing for his brother, somewhere along the way he developed a kink for, well, Sam doesn't even know what to call it. He only knows that Dean is scrambling his brain cells and crossing his wires and he likes it.

Dean frowns, snaps his fingers. “Earth to Sam.”

Sam shakes it off; he doesn't look at the pull of muscle along the curve of Dean's ass, forced taut from his awkward position. Sam holds up the costume. “What the hell is this?”

Dean drags the words out slow and droll. “They are called clothes, Sammy.” Looking away from Sam, Dean pulls the razor up his leg, slow and careful, leaving behind a strip of hairless freckled skin. Sam's fingers twitch and he turns away. Watching that, Dean shaving, is torture, all want and no satisfaction.

Sam examines the clothing. The jeans are black and look about two sizes too small. Sam takes the other garment and twists it one way, then the other. It's dark gray and is mostly strips of cloth accented with dozens of safety pins. He can't find the neck or holes for his arm. He turns it the other way.

An exasperated sigh echoes behind Sam and Dean says, “For God's sake Sam, get the pants on and I'll help you with the shirt.”

Sam turns and hold up the metallic studded cloth. “That’s what they're calling it these days, a shirt?”

“Smart ass. Move it.” Dean starts another swipe and Sam goes to his duffel, looking for underwear.

“Uh-huh. It's commando Sammy. Trust me, those pants won't leave room for anything else.”

Sam's nose crinkles, but his dick jumps. _Damn it._ He's one confused puppy. Sam drops his towel and steps into the jeans, half way up he's wiggling and jumping trying to slide them up further.

“Lay down on the bed. It's easier that way.”

“Were you watching me?”

“Better then _Funniest Home Videos_ , Sammy.”

Sam lays down and with a few tugs, the jeans go over his hips. He sucks in and gets the zipper up, button closed. Now if he can get upright it will be a miracle.

Dean laughs and walks over to the bed, towel tucked around his waist. He holds out his hand and provides leverage for Sam to stand. Looking down at himself Sam asks, “How the hell can I dance in these?” It's purely for bitching's sake. Sam has no intention of actually dancing.

Completely straight faced, Deans says, “Beauty hurts. Besides, they'll loosen up. Give me the shirt.” Dean tucks the towel corner, grabs the shirt, twists it, opens it up, and says, “Arms up.” Sam's hands are far above both their heads, “This was easier when you were five.” The implications behind that statement hit them both and they break eye contact. Sam puts his arms forward and Dean pushes the shirt over his head.

Sam raises his eyes to the mirror, steps forward. He blinks. The school can't argue that he's indecent; everything that should be covered is, but there's something provocative about the low cut of the jeans; they're so low that he couldn't have worn underwear, assuming there was any room for them anyway. 

The shirt hangs unevenly, exposing hipbones and part of his belly and a strip of his lower back. His reflection reminds Sam of the too-cool Goth kids that haunt street corners and skip gym, stuck somewhere between cynicism and childhood. All he needs it the make-up and he'd fit right in.

Sam turns away from the mirror and the sight of Dean steals his breath again. You'd think he'd be used to Dean by now. It's never been lost on him how gorgeous his brother is, and if it had been there were always people willing to let him know in ways that varied from flattering to lewd. Now though, he's seeing things he never noticed before. The way the sun glints in Dean's hair, the long-dark lashes that curve upward and frame his eyes, and lips that were made to tempt even the righteous.

Not content with all these gifts, Dean's changed into a pair of silky black panties that expose bare thigh, the slant of hipbones and outline Dean's cock and balls in an obscene way. Sam's seen Dean naked, in nothing but a towel, even once awkwardly jerking off, but nothing that came before sucked the breath from his lungs or left him light-headed. Sam can't comprehend how far off center he was when he believed that Dean couldn't get any hotter.

Sam swallows. Dean must have shaved his privates and most of his chest before Sam got to the motel. Sam can't quit staring, imagining how Dean's dick would look, full and heavy, head poking out of the top of the tiny row of black lace that runs around the edge of the panties. His mouth is dry at the thought of all that smooth skin, the way it would feel under his tongue. Dean sits down on one bed and props up a foot on the other and leans over with a mess of black cloth in his hands. He rolls it over a toe and smooths it up his leg to his thigh.

Sam falls back against the dresser, hands flailing against the top for support and waits to spontaneously combust. He must make a noise because Dean looks up. There's a pain in Sam's chest, something frightening and big that's full of heat, scrabbling to get out, get at Dean, and Dean – that cocky son-of-a-bitch, shoots him a coy look from under his lashes and fucking winks at him. Then he asks, so sweet that old ladies would think he was a choir boy, “You okay, Sammy?”

Sam's got no words. He bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head.

Dean switches legs and grabs the other stocking. Rolls it on neat and smooth, long fingers lingering over skin turned to smoke from the sheer black material. Dean stands, another garment in his hands that looks a lot like Sam's shirt but with a lot less material. Dean leans over and steps into a circle of the material and shimmies it up his body, hips shifting. It's a deliberate tease; Dean's putting on a show and Sam is all too happy to be the dedicated audience of one.

 

Dean settles the lacy fabric over his hips, smooths it down with his palms. _Garter._ Dean's wearing a fucking garter. _Jesus Christ_ his brother is trying to kill him. Good thing his too tight jeans also serve as a cock cage or Dean would have visible proof of just how fucked up Sam is over him. Dean snaps the garter to his stocking the same way he loads a gun, nimble, quick and efficient.

Sam's reluctant to break the silence but curiosity overcomes common sense and Sam asks, “This isn’t the first time you've done this, is it?”

Dean's got the fluffy lime tulle in his hand. He looks at Sam before bending over and sliding it over his hips. Deliberation settles into the down turn of Dean's mouth. Sam can almost hear the _no chick-flick moments_ that Dean is communicating with his tense posture and hard eyes.

A knock comes at the door. Dean grabs a bag from the bed and exits to the bathroom. “Get that, will you, Sam? I left a twenty on the table.”

Sam sighs. He'll probably never get an answer. The interruption is at least good for his straining dick. Between Dean's departure and the acne covered pizza boy, Sam's erection has faded completely.

Sam slips the pizza onto the coffee table and gets a roll of paper towels from the kitchenette. He plops down on the couch and grabs a slice, pops the tab of one of the four Cokes that came with the pizza and takes a long drink. 

Dean comes out of the bathroom and Sam has the presence of mind to turn his head rather than spit soda all over his outfit. Dean's hair is more spiked up than usual and the ends are the same lime green color as his skirt. 

Dean slaps his back. “Easy there. Can't take your corpse to a dance.” Dean sits, grabs a slice and puts his stocking clad feet up on the coffee table. “Hurry up and eat. We've still got to do your hair and make-up. Figured I'd wait to put my make-up on until I eat and then I'll need you to help me lace up the corset.”

 _Figures_ Dean might be the only person in the entire universe who could sit around shirtless in a tutu, tights, and spiked hair, and somehow act like it's perfectly ordinary.

They sit in silence until they've both finished eating. “So,” Dean says, “You want to know about this?” He makes a vague waving gesture towards himself, eyes looking forward and not meeting Sam's. 

“Yeah.” Sam doesn't make eye contact, surprised that Dean is willing to talk about it; he follows his brother's lead and focuses on his food and drink.

Dean finishes off his Coke, crumples the can in his hand and pops open a second one. “Remember that case we worked in February, the one in L.A.?” Dean darts him a look from the corner of his eye.

Sam nods. “You and Dad went, left me that weird housekeeper in Bakersfield. Neither one of you would tell me a damn thing. All I remember is Dad making me research anything I could find about Incubi.”

Dean snorts and rubs at the back of his neck. “Probably because Dad couldn't figure out anyway to say, 'By the way, Sammy, case is in a drag club and either Dean or I are going to have to dress up as a woman.”

Sam shakes his head. Dad wouldn't have dealt with it well and it explains why Dean was the one to dress-up. No way was Dad going to shave and wear a skirt and Dean was always pliable when it came to what Dad wanted even if he didn't want it for himself.

Dean sighs and Sam can see that his face is blushed in rose. “Obviously I was the one to go undercover. The club owner told his long time partner, who was one of the performers, about the hunt and had her help me out.” Dean squirms on the couch, takes another drink of his coke before continuing, “Rhonda Hurley was her real name. On stage she was Rhonda Ruby Shoes. She must have had fifty pairs of red heels that I saw, and her whole wardrobe was red and pink.”

Dean stops again, glances at Sam to see how he's reacting. Sam stays still and keeps his face blank. It's hard to imagine his over-compensating, macho bullshit brother in a drag queen's dressing room, but Dean opening up is a rarity Sam doesn't want to spoil with any kind of negative reaction.

Dean starts again, “I kind of gave her a hard time. No matter what I told Dad I was hoping maybe I could get out of it. I didn't have any problems with the dancing or the lip syncing, but putting on women's underwear and dresses, yeah, I wasn't down with it and it wasn't like anybody was dying.”

Sam can't help the way his head snaps around to Dean, eyes wide. Dean and dance is another new pairing he's unprepared for. 

Dean must know what Sam's thinking as he says, “I'll tell you about the dancing another time. Let's just say I knew enough to get by. Anyway, I basically told Rhonda I wasn't going to get into girl's close, no fucking way. That shit was for pussies and she could take her lingerie and shove it where the sun don't shine.”

Sam shakes his head and suppresses a laugh, but it slips out anyway as a rough cough. Dean side-eyes him, but doesn't say anything. Sam lifts his Coke up. “Carbonation.”

“Whatever, jerk. Man you should of seen Rhonda in a fury. It was a thing of beauty. She stood up and came after me with a red high heel, screaming about ignorant assholes. I backed up and managed to fall into a pile of fluffy dress and couldn't get untangled.”

“I swear smoke was coming out her nose as she came after me. I thought she was going to bludgeon me with that shoe and I'm pretty sure she could've taken me too. Six-two and one-ninety. No one gave Rhonda any shit. I understood why as she barreled down on me.” 

Dean stops and Sam can't believe he stopped there. “Damn it, Dean. What happened?”

Dean's color is redder than before, starting to spread to his chest. “Well, you know how we were trained.” Sam nods. “I pulled a knife and she screeched like I actually stuck her with it. Then she said, 'Oh you ignorant, boy.' She dropped the shoe and tears welled up in her eyes. I struggled with the frills and lace until I could stand. As fast as she got upset, the look in her eyes switched to calculating.”

Dean stands up, crushes his second can and tosses both containers in the trash. He wraps the pizza in foil and puts it in the fridge. After he closes it he leans back against the counter, eyes on his feet, arms crossed.

Sam knows stalling when he sees it. As soft as possible Sam urges him to continue, “Dean?”

His eyes meet Sam's then skitter back down. Sam has to lean forward to hear what he says. “She challenged me and you know how I am.” Sam nods, Dean has almost no ability to step down from a challenge. “She threw me these pink panties, all shimmery and silky. She said, 'Fine, pretty boy, if you're such a big he-man guess you can try on a pair of panties and it won't dent your macho points.' She tossed them to me and turned her back while I changed.”

Dean's voice drops even lower and Sam slips out of his chair to his knees to catch every word, crawls closer. He's afraid anything more bold will throw Dean out of the story, but he's not about to miss a word. No second chances here. Dean swallows and presses his palms into the skirt. “I – it, well, it got me hard.” He rushes on, never once looking at Sam. “I expected her to laugh or make fun of me, but she didn't. She was awesome. She gave me a housecoat and some scotch and then told me all about drag and transsexuals and transvestites and queers and how not to offend anyone else at the club.” A small smile lifts the corner of Dean's mouth and he meets Sam's eyes for the first time, searching.

“I'm surprised she didn't start with the last one.”

Dean huffs out a laugh and his hand ruffles Sam's hair.

Dean sinks against the cabinets, joins Sam on the floor, knees tucked to his chest. “So, we're okay?”

“I guess I shouldn't be that surprised.” Dean raises an eyebrow, waiting for Sam to continue. “You were always the one that was into dressing up Dean. When we played cowboys and Indians you refused to start the game until I had real war paint – in colors, just like the movies and you made Dad make you a badge out of tin foil. After you saw Peter Pan, you wore that green outfit with the tights around for months and I was too little to get that I shouldn't have let you put me in a nightgown. You get excited every time a case comes up that requires uniforms or undercover disguises.” Sam shrugs. “So, yeah, I guess this isn't so out of the ordinary unless there's more to it.”

The silent question hangs in the air. Dean's eyes shift colors, a sure sign that he's deciding whether or not to answer. “You mean like I secretly want to be your sister?”

Sam smiles, tries for reassurance. They don't do this, spill out their feelings and Sam can't think of anyway to say what he needs to. “It's okay. Whatever you want to do, you're still my family.”

Dean reaches out, a quick snap of his arm, hand gripping Sam's neck and pulls him close. “Thanks, Sammy. I'm all guy and like my bits right where they are. It's also, I don't know the girl stuff is kind of sexy, but the best part is being another person, with another life, just for a little while. ” 

Sam closes his arms around Dean. Sam gets it. He often dreams of a life different than the one they have. Any sane person would. 

“Get your heavy ass up. We got a lot left to do.” Dean shoves at Sam until he gets up. He moves over to the beds and digs through one of the mystery bags and comes up with an assortment of sticks, brushes and small containers. He eyes Sam up and down and put some of the containers back and grabs new ones. He herds Sam into the small bathroom with a shoulder at his back.

Sam watches Dean arrange all the cosmetics on the narrow sink back. He hands Sam a long stick that's probably eyeliner. “I decided we'd go with simple punk. I'll fix your hair after we do the make-up. Just draw a line around your eyes and I'll add details in a second.

Sam looks in the mirror and brings the pointed tip to the bottom of his eye. He presses too hard or something because a big glob sticks to his skin. He tries to smooth it out with the pencil tip, but it smears, so he moves to the other corner of his eyes. He figures he can meet at the smeared part. Instead, he pokes himself in the eye. “Ow, fuck, ow!'

Dean grabs Sam's hands and drags them from his eyes. “Let me see.” He’s shaking his head, big grin on his face. “Your hopeless at this, aren't you?” Dean grabs his shoulders and shoves Sam onto the toilet seat.

 _Well it's not like I make a habit of putting on make-up._ Sam snaps his teeth together to keep it from springing out between them. He's doing that a lot lately, biting off words he wouldn't have thought twice about saying before Dean became his pretend boyfriend. In some ways they are more in-tune, more sensitive to each other than ever before. Sam can see Dean more clearly than he ever has. Even if Sam gets his heart broken, maybe something good can come from this slippery, messy, mixed-up disaster that they've cornered themselves in. 

Dean grips Sam's chin in his hand and tilts his head up, the liner held in the other hand. The expression on his face is the same one that Dean uses when he looks down the barrel of his gun at a target, fierce and intense. Sam represses the squirm, shift, dance his body wants to do as all that attention send sparks skittering across his skin.

Dean's strokes are firm and sure. He draws a line from the corner of Sam's left eye to his temple and back up again over the curve of his lid. Sam's hair stands on end, back of his neck tingling as the pencil moves over his skin. The right eye gets the reverse treatment, the lines meeting in an apex at Sam's hairline. Dean trades the skinny pencil for a sponge and a small dish of black cream. 

Dean dabs the cream inside the line work; the sponge pads against Sam's skin, sending shock waves out across his nerve endings. Sam clenches his hands, digs his fingertips into his flesh. Dean's right there bringing him to life, acting like nothings going on, breathing out pizza and corn syrup, which should be enough to kill any thoughts of sexy times, but apparently the sheer power of Dean's lips is enough to blot out any undesirable qualities and make Sam want nothing more than to pull him in and press kisses all over the freckled skin of his bare stomach. _God_ He is so fucked up over Dean it's ridiculous.

Dean steps back and places his fingers under Sam's chin, tilting it one direction then the other, a critical examination. He trades pencils again and his hand slides over Sam's jaw, cupping the side of his face and tilting it to the light. Dean takes the slim pencil and presses against Sam's bottom lip, making small strokes towards the corner of his mouth. Sam swallows the whimper that rises involuntarily as the corner of his mouth sparks, sending tingles across his mouth. He makes some kind of sound and Dean stops and says, “You okay?”

“Itches.”

Dean blows a heavy breath through his nose and smiles, before adding a few more strokes on Sam's upper lip. “Looks good.” Sam starts to move, get up, but Dean's hands force him back down. “

Sam raises his hand to his face, traces the place on his mouth where Dean drew with the pencil, echoes of the earlier tingles spread across his lips.

“Stop that, you'll smear it.” Dean's frowning, hands crammed with small hair spray bottles and hair product. The items clatter against the porcelain surface of the sink when Dean drops them inside. “Here, put this around your shoulders.”

Sam complies. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him to his knees next to the tub. This is as familiar to Sam as breathing, ritual conducted from as far back as he can remember. Dean pushes his shoulder urging him to bend over and turns on the water. He kneels next to him and his heartbeat reverberates through Sam where Dean's chest is pressed to his back. Sam knows the wait is for Dean to check the temperature, make sure it won't scald or freeze. Dean runs a hand up his neck through his hair and guides Sam's head under the faucet. He runs his hands through Sam's hair soaking it in warm water. Sensations combine and Sam relaxes, surrounded by Dean, soothed by touch, heated and secure, but he also wants, his trapped dick throbbing in time to his heart beat. His nerves are alight, craving more. Dean turns off the water and Sam sighs. Dean guides him back to a sitting position and towel dries his hair. Once he's satisfied Dean tucks the towel back around Sam's shoulders. 

“You look like a drowned rat, Sammy.”

“Fuck off, Dean.”

They're both grinning as if they just shared the deepest sentiments of endearment.

Dean grabs a tube of gel and, rubs it onto his hands and works it into Sam's hair with soft pulses of his fingers. He turns Sam's head this way and that lifting the hair from his scalp. If Sam could purr, he'd be rumbling loud and happy. Dean stops, grabs a small jar of product and scoops it onto three fingers. He grabs a clump of Sam's hair and twists.

“Ow, Dean, what the hell?” Contentment bounds away and Sam bats at Dean's hands as they come back towards his hair. 

“Stop it. Take it like a man. You've had worse on the playground.” Sam grumbles as Dean starts twisting again, but his brother is taking it easier now. Dean pulls and twists, steps back, gets more goop and makes another spike. Sam sinks back into his previous contentment, soporific with Dean's entire focus on him.

When Dean grunts his final approval Sam blinks and moves to take a look. Dean stops him with a hand on his chest and a shake of his head. He picks up one of the spray cans, blocks Sam's face with an arm and sprays. Sam hears the can clatter back into the sink and then the spraying sound. Eighteen times Sam counts Dean spraying his hair. He wonders what kind of mess Dean made of him and starts planning revenge, maybe dye in Dean's shampoo or ex-lax in his coffee.

Dean tips his head, squints and says, “Awesome.”

“Don't break that arm patting yourself on the back.”

“If I don't acknowledge my greatness, who will?”

Sam rolls his eyes and stands up.

Dean blocks the mirror. “Uh-uh. There's a few more things to add to your costume on the bed. Don't look until I come back in there.”

“Okay, whatever.” Sam says and leaves the bathroom. Dean shuts the door behind him.

Sam really wants to look; he's still afraid Dean hasn't been able to resist making him into a joke. Sam lifts his hand to his hair, but brings it back down. He wants to scratch. The make-up and hair feel like that third sweater you put on to stay warm with no heat, awkward and suffocating.

On the bed is a pair of black boots, with metal studs that lace up Sam's calf to his knees. The other clothing item is a black leather jacket with metal studs and spikes. Sam shrugs it on and sits down on the bed, zones out until Dean exits the bathroom.

This seals the deal. Sam is never getting to the dance. He'll either expire from Dean's increasing sex appeal or he'll lock his brother in this room and not come up for air until they're both sticky, messy and sated. Dean's lipstick is the same shade of green as his hair and if that wasn't enough to draw additional attention to Dean's mouth, he's got a silver lip ring hooked over the bottom lip. Luminous is the only word Sam can think of for the way Dean's eyes look. Sam doesn't know what Dean did besides add some dark liner, but his eyes are greener than ever and his lashes sweep over his cheeks when he blinks.

Dean grabs a pair of over the knee Chucks; they’re black and laced up with hot pink laces and some see through lime ribbon. A black garment is the next item Dean picks up; he holds it across his chest and turns his back to Sam. “Okay, I'm going to need a hand with this.” 

Sam stands up and without thought weaves his fingers between the ribbons, brushes his knuckles along the freckled skin underneath. Dean shivers and says, his voice rough, “Stop playing around. Start tightening the laces at the top, then at the bottom and so on, until you have it mostly closed and the ribbons hang from the middle.”

Sam follows Dean instructions. His brother makes breathy, tiny grunts with each tug. Sam lingers against skin as he pulls and adjusts the satin ribbons. Dean's skin pebbles under the caresses and Sam wants more excuses to put his hands on his brother. Sam hold the ribbons tight and loops one over the other while Dean reaches around and holds the center so Sam can tie a bow. Their fingers tangle and both still, holding on for longer than needed to finish the task. Sam steps back, if he doesn't he's likely to undue all of Dean's work, because getting Dean out of that corset seems far more enticing than putting him in it.

Sam turns back when he hears jangling coming from behind him. Dean has on a black lace glove and is slipping a series of bracelets over it that almost obscures the fabric. He grabs more metal and pearls and beads from the bed and slips on several long necklaces. Over his shoulder he says to Sam.“Grab a couple of those and pull them so they hang down the back.” 

Sam grabs a chain and some pearls. Both are plastic and have the clear worn material showing through their shiny surfaces, thrift store rejects, but they'll look real enough under in the dark. Sam tugs until they bump against Dean's throat. There's something beautiful about the strands framed against the satiny corset and Dean's freckled skin. Sam brushes through them with his fingers setting them swinging.

Dean spins around, his hands holding a two spike leather items. “Give me your arm, Sammy.”

Sam puts out his wrist.

“Hear hold this.” Dean says, holding out one of the leather pieces. Sam opens his extended hand. “No, the other hand.”

Sam does as asked and Dean opens the leather circlet he's holding and places it around Sam's wrist. The entire surface is studded, some with spikes set intermittently between flats. Dean snaps it to Sam's wrist and rubs a thumb over his pulse. Sam's heart thunders a drowning bass note, making him numb everywhere but where he's connected to Dean

Sam raises his other hand at the same time Dean reaches for the other piece of leather. It's black like the wrist cuff, but has only one row of flat studs going around the center and three-quarter inch silver rings dangling from every quarter. 

Dean puts it around Sam's neck and sparks ignite at the whisper of Dean’s fingers on his throat. Dean's thumb presses up under his ear, making a soothing pass over sensitive skin, as he pauses and asks, “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” It's not even a word, more of a gruff mumbled assent, but Dean understands. He reaches behind Sam's neck, noses brushing, his breath moist against Sam's cheek. Sam swallows against the leather. The snap of the collar shatters something and all of Sam's dead nerves jump start as if he's only now come to life. His eyes sting, tears pressing to the backs of them and he wishes with every and piece of his being that this was real. Sam clamps his jaw against the emotion that threatens to spill over, staining his bond with Dean beyond fixing.

Dean lets go and turns his back, dragging Sam in his wake with a wave of his hand. Sam lets the relief slip through his teeth in a silent hiss. If Dean had looked at him, there would've been no way for Sam to hide. It was painted all over his face. He's never had to hide things from Dean before, nothing big anyway. Experience had taught him Dean would always suss out the big stuff. Sam better fucking work on his poker face, because Dean can't ever know he's been stupid enough to go and fall in love with his big brother.

Caught in his own thoughts Sam bumps into Dean's back. He looks up and meets Dean's eyes in the mirror.

“God, we are smoking, Sammy.”

Sam looks for the first time. All the pieces of the afternoon fitted together to create something both bizarre and beautiful. Dean's not wrong about the two guys in the mirror and a skirt hasn't suddenly turned Dean into a girl.

If Sam met these two with no foreknowledge or their origin, he'd avoid them. The sharp triangles on Sam's face obscure his eyes, sharpen the planes of his cheeks and obscure his age. Even with skin showing, Sam's outfit and widening shoulders scream _don't fuck with me_. Dean's make-up makes him look otherworldly, stunning, but everything else about him dares the world with bright colors and an asexual presentation, a threat to kick your ass if you blink wrong. The two young men in the mirror aren't anybody he recognizes.

Dean turns him, cups his cheek. “It's okay, Sammy, it's just us, no matter what roles we play it's always gonna be us.” Dean's voice is a husky plea and Sam nods, lays his forehead against Dean's 

Sam searches his mind for words, grabs at some, tosses them, flings others aside. The acknowledgment of the things he feels for Dean, desires he was never supposed to want, the way Dean eclipses his world; it all weighs in his stomach, a heavy stone dragging all his thought down with it and leaving him tongue-tied.

:::

They enter the school and get in line behind a handful of other students, some in groups or coupled off. A Madonna-esque girl behind them stares and compliments them on the outfits. That catches the attention of the couple in front of them – people Sam doesn't know – and they smirk a bit. Considering they're dressed like two rejects from the movie _Working Girl_ Sam figures they don't have any room to judge.

Janelle is manning the ticket table. She takes Dean's money with a smile and hands him two tickets. She's counting out the change, stops and her eyes travel up both of them, widen and ping-pong back and forth between Dean and him. Her mouth drops open, then twists up in a sneer. “Well don't just stand there. Other people are waiting.” She must have run out of venomous repertoire if that's the best she could do.

Dean puts his arm around Sam's shoulders, gives the tickets to the waiting attendant and receives the torn stubs in return. 

He guides Sam to a gaudy arch of fake flowers backed by shiny metal streamers. It takes Sam a second before he realizes Dean plans on having their picture taken. Sam pulls away. “Oh, no. No way, Dean.” He is not having himself immortalized on film in this get up. Dean will use it as fodder to make fun of Sam until the day he dies.

Dean's hand snaps out, clamps onto the collar of Sam's jacket and snags him as he's walking away. “Calm down, Sammy. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't get us a picture? Besides, I'm going to be in it too.” Dean never has mastered the sweet and innocent look; it always comes off a bit sly, so Sam isn't sure Dean isn't cooking up nefarious plans to blackmail him at some future point in time, but no way in hell Dean's going to give up either. Sam figures it's better to go along, rather than have Dean drag him into the picture and end up with an even more embarrassing shot. He still hasn't managed to steal back the one where Dean de-pantsed him in the photo booth at the fair when he was seven.

The photographer looks at both of them and arranges them so Sam's shoulder overlaps Dean's. He looks through the lens, then back up. “C'mon, boys, don't be shy. You in the back, put your arms around your guy.”

Sam does as directed. It's awkward. Balloons swirl at their feet and Sam doesn't know where to put his hands. He's thrown by the way Dean smells, something softer than normal, not a feminine fragrance, but like nuts and vanilla. Sam's pulled from his thoughts by Dean's hands on his wrists. His brother shuffles a bit so that one of Sam's hands is at his waist, the other over his shoulder. Dean melts into him, one arm coming up to circle Sam's neck, the other arm shoots out, makes a fist with horns; it's heat, scratchy fabric, lights in his eyes, and Dean smelling good enough to eat. Sam's senses overload. He blinks and they're moving on.

Dean greets people, a little more flirtatious than usual, hips swaying and hands all over Sam as he shows off, turning them both, posing so everyone gets the full effect of their costumes. A curl of joy works through Sam, tendrils of heat and happiness and his lips tip up, smile back at Dean. Dean isn't acting; he's enjoying this. Why wouldn't he? Mostly, they have to hide, _keep your nose clean_ as Dad would say, meaning, don't draw any attention to yourselves, keep a low profile, make as little noise as possible and don't get in trouble. 

They pass Janelle's table, where they're ignored. It beats the hell out of nasty words and hurled insults, so Sam is thankful. An the far side of the dance floor, Clara waves him over. Her and Fred went all out on their outfits. She's Andie and he's Duckie from _Pretty In Pink._

Dean takes a seat and Fred asks him about the Impala. Sam smiles, Dean will talk about that as long as the other person will listen.

Sam sits down and Clara pulls her chair closer. “First, does he look good in everything?” Sam laughter spills out loud at the irony. Dean looks over and winks at him.

Sam catches his breath and says, “Pretty much yeah.”

“Bet he looks awesome naked.” Sam chokes a little, heat rising up his body and into his face. He looks at Clara and she's smiling, mischief deepening her dimples. “What? Do not tell me he's bad in the sack, because that would be a crime against humanity.”

“Um – ” that's as far as Sam gets before Clara interrupts.

“Sam Winchester, you can't tell me you haven’t sealed the deal? Look at him. What are you waiting for?”

_He's my brother._ would certainly answer the question, but not in an acceptable way. Sam searches for a good excuse, but the way Dean's easing little looks from under his lashes and the way he's pretty much sex on legs, not only stops Sam's brain processes, they add weight to Clara's observations. Who in their right mind wouldn't have put their hands all over Dean given half a chance.

Dean, a master at sensing Sam's distress, breaks from his conversation and slides his chair the foot or so it takes to get close to Sam. He throws an arm around Sam's shoulders, tucks him into his side. “So what are you two talking about?” Fred scoots closer as well, and Sam knows there is now zero chance that Clara will bring the topic up in current company. Sam shoots Dean a grateful smile and Dean squeezes his shoulder.

Clara asks about their costumes and make-up. Dean bullshits a story about working at a carnival one summer. As always, their lives require a disguise to pass in the everyday and each time they spin a tale Sam's stomach swirls. He has to press down the urge to wretch, sure that this time will be the one when someone figures out the lie.

Some song with a thumping beat comes on and it's impossible to talk. Clara grabs Fred and drags him to the dance floor. He shoots a pleading look at Sam and Dean. Sam leans forwards, laugh caught in his throat, ready to trade pitying insults with Dean and ends up with a face full of skirt. Dean's standing, tugging Sam upright and pulling him in the direction of the dance floor. Sam pulls, back, digs in his feet and Dean skids to a halt.

Sam shakes his head. “Uh-uh. No way. I'm not dancing.”

Dean pinches the hand that grips his elbow. Sam winces and Dean puts his mouth to Sam's ear. “Yes, you are. Your always pissing and moaning that you don't get to do what the other kids do. Well, Sammy welcome to normal. Teenagers go to dances, and guess what they do there. They dance.”

Dean pokes him in the ribs causing Sam to lose ground, and before he can recover Dean's got him on the dance floor. Sam sticks out, the only one not moving. He can admit most of the guys don't look very coordinated, but they're enthusiastic. Dean hip-bumps him, smiles and presses his cheek to Sam's. “I got you.” He drops both hands to Sam's hips. “It's just like sparring, but instead of countering my moves you follow them. Loosen your knees.” Awkwardness peels away under the familiar force of Dean's commands and the surety of his hands.

Dean guides them in a shuffling swaying motion. Sam's stiff and tries to follow, but he can't seem to get the rhythm, hitting off-beat and countering Dean's every movement. Dean leans in, mouth to Sam's ear. “Your thinking too hard. Look at me, not at your feet.” Dean's hands shift, thumbs skate under Sam's shirt, find skin and tap out a code for Sam to follow on every down beat. Their eyes clash and Sam allows himself to fall into it, unable to hide anything; his emotions fly all over the place, but he slips into pace with Dean without anymore trouble.

Dean's eyes are unreadable, flashing green when the flickering lights. Air stitches through Sam's lungs, tightening his chest, drawing up into his throat and he's halfway between running and throwing himself at Dean when his brother changes their move, hands at his hips guiding Sam into the new step. He follows it with ease and Dean adds a little back and forth step on the next time through.

Dean's voice and lips are at his ear again. “Okay, you've got this. I'm going to ease back and you can start checking out other people copying their steps.” That's also familiar, something Dad has made them do since they were old enough to start throwing punches. Sam watches and sees someone do a little hip roll shimmy. He does that and adds his own spin. Dean's grinning when he stops and Sam answers with his own. He can get why people do this. His chest is full, happy and his pulse is jumping and every person on the dance floor is reflecting the same back. 

Clara and Fred dance their way past a group and widen the circle of Dean and him to four. Sam forgets his nervousness and any awareness of others looking at him. 

One song ends and the next one begins – the Macarena. Dean's not fond of this song – or to be accurate – he has expressed his disdain about lemmings or sheep every time they've been in a place that played it. Sam can't hide his surprise when Dean starts up the movements. Dean shrugs and adds a little jerking-off movement with his hand, which Sam immediately imitates. They turn to the left and this time Dean adds another little roll of shoulders,a long slide with the jerking-off gesture. Sam follows and notices Clara and Fred doing the same. More people fall in on every repetition, copying Dean's movements.

Dean shines on the dance floor, people following him as if they can't stop themselves. Sam wonders what Dean could have been in a different life, all that charisma, in-born leadership, knowing when to push and how to give orders. It's not like what they do is a waste, but as hunter's they are isolated and Dean's never going to win an award or give a speech about killing a banshee or returning a little girl to her parents.

After four songs, they leave the dance floor and head for the refreshments. Sam's glad they had pizza earlier. The table has several bowls of chips and crackers, punch that's probably been spiked, and a few pitchers of water.

They both pass on the snacks.

Dean reaches for a water pitcher and pours a glass. He hands Sam his water, then takes a cup for himself. His concentration is fixed to the water pitcher when he says, “Thought you'd want to know. I talked to the Vice Principal and looks like you're going to get to see me in a cap and gown after all.” Dean's eyes never leave his cup of water as he turns to walk back to the table. 

Dean chose this moment so Sam wouldn't make a big deal out of it. Not like he can throw himself on Dean and congratulate him with hugs, in the middle of the entire school while he's holding liquid.

When the next fast song starts Dean doesn't have to drag him to the dance floor. The next two hours pass in a blur of bodies and yelling and sweat, that leaves Sam breathless and clinging to Dean. Inevitably the DJ puts on the last song, something slow, and as unfamiliar to Sam as everything else played tonight. Sam slips his arms from Dean's neck, reluctant to let go of Dean, but resigned to the fact that Dean isn't going to want to take the ruse further than he already has. After all, they've stopped dancing every other time something slow starts.

“Not so fast.” Dean grips his waist, pulls Sam's arms back around his neck. Dean's chest is pressed against Sam's heart still chattering from the fast dancing.

Soaking in every sensation, Sam times his breathing to Dean's, notes the beads digging into his skin and the sticky-slick tug of Dean's skin against his forearms. “Didn't think you'd want to,” Sam mumbles it, forehead tilted to Dean's cheek. 

Dean's hands spread over his back, warm tendrils of heat radiating outward on Sam's skin like ripples in a pool. Dean guides him even closer, so close that one more micron of movement will reveal to Dean that Sam's not play-acting anymore. Sam doesn't care, the school could be overrun by demons and he wouldn't pull away, thinks this is all he's ever wanted, to be wholly Dean's, surrounded, encased and held close.

“Wouldn't be much of a boyfriend if I didn't slow dance with you once.” Dean's voice is the low roll of thunder before flash lightning and Sam wallows in it, let's himself believe for a few minutes that this is real and Dean is as effected as Sam is.

The movements they make, a shuffle slide, isn't dancing, not really, but it's intimate and heated and one hairline from being sex with their clothes on. Too soon, before Sam is ready to give up the illusion, the music stops and the lights brighten. Couples break apart, some in more compromising locks than Sam and Dean's, despite the chaperones roaming the perimeters of the crowd. Announcements are made and obligatory applause is sounded out, but all Sam can do is stare at Dean's mouth, hugged by a thin line of silver, and imagine messing up that lime lipstick until it bleeds over pale skin and freckles.

The spell breaks when Fred clasps Sam on the back, and asks Dean, “So, you two going to the after party at the Trinity?” The after party has been the talk of the school for a week straight, bandied about in hushed whispers and folded notes, location changed three times to keep snooping adults from being able to inform parents and police.

Dean reels Sam in under his arm, body angled into Sam's side and places the other hand, wide splayed mark of ownership over Sam's midriff. The hand at Sam's shoulder sneaks up his neck and the pad of a finger skates down the rim of his ear as Dean says, “Damn straight. Got a room and everything. Wouldn't want Sammy here to miss out on the entire dance experience.” Dean punctuates the word “entire” with raised eyebrows and lasciviousness dripping from his tone.

Clara winks at him and Sam's skin heats, probably blushing, as if Dean really plans on the deflowering he's hinting at.

The cool night air as they walk out of the gym brushes off the last of Sam's stupor, his self-delusions that this means anything. 

The doors squeak shut on the Impala, sealing them together and for the first time that he can remember Sam wants to get out of the car, run. Rather than the surety of the known, a home of sorts, the car is black chariot of doom transporting him to his eventual downfall. He doesn't know how he'll get through the rest of the night without spilling himself all over Dean.

As if he said it out loud, Dean's hand reaches across the bench seat, curves to the back of his neck and some of the tension eases away. “Relax Sam, we'll put in an appearance, then we can relax in a nice room, even order room service if you want.”

“We could skip it.” They could. In fact, that would be an excellent idea. Go back to their over saturated, sixties throw-up room, bury this damn pretense and be who they've always been. The sooner the better.

“I'm just trying to be convincing here, Sammy. I figure after this everyone will be utterly convinced that you have me wound around your finger. That's what you wanted, right?” 

It was, but all Sam wants right now is to pretend he'd never been stupid enough to mouth off in the first place. Sam's about to say so, but Dean's tone was challenging in a way Sam has no power over and he can't force the words out. Instead his Pavlovian instinct to Dean's poking takes over and words he hadn't even thought, wouldn't have spoken if he had, tumble off his tongue. “Guess we better make it convincing then.” 

Dean's grin is a white streak in the dark and his hand pulses around Sam's neck. “That's my boy.”

:::

The party at the Trinity is already in full swing by the time Dean pulls into the hotel parking lot. Some students left the dance early and even more came straight there and skipped the dance completely. The Trinity is several towers rising high overhead, lights pricking the night sky. Inside, the towers surround a courtyard area, centered by a pool. A four member band is playing a rock cover on the far side of the shimmering water. Couples and small groups dot the remaining area, sprawling on lounges and huddling over tables. A few people are dancing on the pin-head size space left for such activities. Couples are making out in dark corners and behind plants.

Dean bumps his shoulder and nods. Sam follows the silent direction with his eyes and sees a bag-covered bottle making the rounds, passed surreptitiously under tables and inside purses. Considering the raucous bursts of voices and the twittering giggles floating in the cavernous space, Sam guesses the bottle's not making a solo journey. 

Clara and Fred wave at them from a group sitting near the band. Dean lets go of Sam's hand, nudges him towards his friends. “Go on, I'll be there in a second.”

Sam shakes off his stupor, focuses all of his attention on Dean and frowns. “What?” 

Deans steps back in smile flitting over his mouth. Before Sam knows it's coming, Dean is kissing him, lips gliding over his, hand at the small of his back. It's slow and gentle, one pass of lips then another until Sam's mouth drops open, silent invitation for more. Sam is putty, languid, boneless, under Dean's assault. Before Sam is aware, Dean is walking away, a saunter to his steps that's proud and cocky. 

Sam touches his lips, still tingling from the kiss. He ignores the catcalls and whistles as he makes his way to his friends.

Sam flops down in a padded outdoor chair, mind scattered. The elbow to his ribs brings him around a bit. “Someone's getting laid tonight.” Fred leers at him, eyebrows waggling.

Sam's euphoria scatters, but he plasters a smile to his face, ducks his head and makes his best attempt at bashful. It's a well-worn move used to confuse store clerks, desk jockeys and law enforcement while Dean and Dad pursue questionable activities.

Fred chuckles and Clara sighs, both taken inby Dean and Sam's complimentary performances. Before his friends can ask uncomfortable questions, Dean is back, hand settling between Sam's jacket and skin at his nape. Sam shivers and Clara covers her mouth to dampen the giggly noise she makes.

“Well, boys and girls, it's been fun, but me and Sammy are out of here. We have better things to do than chit chat.” The look Dean gives him is void of cheesy innuendo or over-the-top swagger. Sam can't catalog and file the look. It's similar to Dean's I-want-to-bend-you-over-and-fuck-you-eyes, gives a nod to his I'd-do-anything-for-you stare of family loyalty and tips towards I'm-so-happy-I'm-flying-and-I'll-take-on-the-world expression that is a rare and not often flashed thing. But it is none of these exactly. It burns, green fire that eats across Sam's skin, digs through his muscle, etches to his bone and ignites places so deep inside him Sam has no idea they existed before this moment. 

He's supposed to stand up, but there's no way in hell his legs will hold him upright. 

Dean twines his hand into Sam's. “It's okay, Sammy.” And it is. Just like that, like always, Dean's surety and strength flow osmosis-like from their connected touch and Sam's drawn up by it. Grounded by Dean's touch it's easy for Sam to lean into his brother and push all the chatter around them away as they leave the party.

:::

They ride up the elevator in silence. Sam turns his back to Dean watches through the glass walls of the elevator as the people below get smaller, the pool shrinking to a sparkling square reflection of the moon.

The elevator shushes to a stop at what must be their floor and Sam follows Dean out, down a corridor grander than any he's been in before, a serene quiet that's woven into plush carpets, demure walls and low pools of light.

The room Dean ushers him into is more of the same, subtle shades of gold and cream, marked with cobalt flowers – real – in a china vase. Something from the Ming Dynasty if Sam remembers right from last year's hunt for an angry spirit, research books filled with similar pictures of pottery, but twisted with dragons and demons. Here, such images are banished, the most threatening thing the room contains is one large king size bed.

Flower petals fall across it, scatter across the floor and spread outward in a semi-circle. 

On a marble topped table, bracketed by two plush golden chairs, is a bottle of champagne and chocolate covered strawberries.

Sam doesn't say anything, just looks at Dean.

“What? It was the special for the dance. All the rooms feature something they called the _Romance for Two_ package.

Sam knows nothing about hotel packages or what’s normal, but he does know Dean, knows the cadence and lilt of his best bullshit, knows how his eyes soften at the corners and his lips faintly curve when he's selling a story.

Sam stops, mind re-winding the last six weeks, skipping through all of Dean's subtle touches and thoughtful gestures, the flirting and possessiveness. “You were seducing me the entire time.” The words are more revelation than accusation.

“I'd call it conducting an experiment in the attempt to prove a hypothesis.”

Sam smiles. Dean will never not be a smart ass, but when it doesn't make Sam want to punch him in the face, it creates a giddy bubbling excitement as if Sam is _in-on_ not the _butt-of_ the joke. “Knew you paid attention in classes.”

“Yeah, well – ” Dean's voice trails off, hand coursing through his hair, even as he slouches against the golden striped wallpaper.

It comes crashing in on Sam then, whatever happens here is Sam's call. Dean might have held out the carrot, but whether to ignore the offering or make a meal of it is entirely Sam's choice. 

“So, what do you want to do?” Dean steps away from the wall, stops a few feet from him.

It’s such a typical Dean question, loaded with meanings, carefully weighted to give him leeway no matter how Sam answers. 

Sam lowers his head, smiles and closes the space between, leaving sparse inches separating them. He does what he's been thinking about all night and presses a thumb to the ring on Dean's mouth. That small piece of metal catches the light, draws the eye and makes Dean stunning mouth more noticeable then ever. Sam wasn't the only one looking and he'd pretty much wanted to punch every person whose eyes glazed over looking at Dean. As much as Sam likes the look, he's secretly glad that it can never be permanent.

Sam rubs a thumb across Dean's bottom lip, smearing green between them as he explores something he never allowed himself to dream of doing. He continues the journey, tracing down the corner of Dean's mouth, over stubbled chin, down the column of throat that Sam can too easily imagine having his mouth on, and lands on the protrusion of collar bone. The bright green lipstick is a faint trace of pigment and sparkle and Dean's heart pounds under his palm. 

It hits Sam then that he's not sure how to answer Dean's question. The pretense they've been projecting has wrapped them up in a cocoon of sexual innuendo, but the truth is Sam has barely been kissed. He's got little experience and any knowledge has come from porn or library books which couldn't be more clinical or more useless if they tried. 

Going with instinct, Sam drops to his knees, taking folds of voluminous tulle with him. His arms go around Dean's thighs and he presses his face to Dean's hipbone, mouth almost touching the silken covered length of Dean's cock. Sam nuzzles in, kisses it before raising his eyes to Dean. “I want you, anything, everything. Just you.”

Hands settle at his shoulder and Dean's eyes flutter shut, before opening again. “Damn it, Sammy. You may just kill me.” Dean's hands move to his face and gently tug, encouraging him up.

Dean kisses him then, a small peck before pulling back and looking Sam in the eyes. “You're sure.”

Sam nods. He is sure, but his stomach swims, more than anticipation churning in his depths. When it comes to sex, Dean is millenniums out of his league and Sam is so far out of his depth that he can't even see a foot hold from here.

Dean's hand waves in front of his eyes. “Hey.” The word is soft and concerned as Dean's eyes lock with Sam's. Dean's other hand is cupped around the back of his head and his thumb draws little circles at the pulse point under Sam's ear. “You with me?” Sam nods. “Sammy, anything you do will be enough, will be awesome, okay? Right now, knowing I get this, with you, is enough.”

Sam should have known. Dean's always been tuned to him as if his brother's name had been etched to his soul when Sam was conceived. Dean had known how terrified Sam was the first day of kindergarten. He'd been the one to distract Mellie Dent when she was determined to get Sam in a dark corner last year when Sam wasn't ready for that, and Dean had brought up college almost four months ago guessing before Sam thought of it that it was something he'd want. Dean's always known Sam better then he knows himself; this isn't any different.

Sam smiles and Dean presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Why don't we clean up. You stink.”

Sam laughs. “You don't smell like roses.”

“Of course not. I'm all man Sam. I smell like – ” 

Before Dean can finish the sentence Sam fills the blank, “horse, ass, farts – ”

Dean's hand comes down over his mouth. Covering his grin and stopping his words. Sam licks across Dean's palm, something he's done hundreds of times in fights to get the advantage of Dean pulling back, grossed out, but this time it's different. In a second faster than lightning the mood shifts again, air heavy, arousal drowning out playful. 

Dean kicks off the skirt, eyes all serious and dark. Heat scours though Sam and they’re not even touching, but Dean's attention is like being touched everywhere at once; it's laser tight, focused and intent and Sam could bask in it for the rest of his life and be content.

Remembering the look in Dean's eyes when he was on his knees before, Sam sinks to the carpet to help Dean with his shoes. Sam glances up, revels in the heated look beaming down at him. He turns away before looks can escalate to more and his hands fumble with the laces.

“Wait a second. There's a zipper on the back.” Dean's voice is a throttled rumble, coarse and stuttering. One hand weaves into Sam's hair, tugs and pets as Sam searches the back of Dean's calf and finds the zipper pull. Sam tugs it down, Dean lifts his foot and Sam pulls the shoe off. He shifts to the side and reaches for the other zipper. This time, more confident. Sam leans his forehead to Dean's stocking covered knee, rubs his cheek against silky-slick texture and hears Dean's in-taken breath. Fingers tighten in his hair, smooth back out over scalp and warm tingles travel from Sam's head to the base of his spine, eliciting a smile. 

With the second shoe removed, Sam leans back on his calves and feet. Dean pads across the carpet, stockinged feet making shushing noises.

Realization hits Sam that soon they'll be naked and there's something he very badly wants before that happens. “Wait. Can I – ?”

Dean turn back, stands in front of him. “Anything, Sammy.”

Sam swallows. Can't look at Dean, but manages to tumble the words out anyway. “Can you turn around?”

Dean does and Sam shuffles forward on his knees until he's inches from Dean's heels. Sam presses a thumb to both heels, a feather light touch that makes Dean shiver. The slight movement recoils up Sam's arms as if it were an earthquake. He flattens his palms, shackles them around Dean's ankles and glides them up to the back of his knees. Using a thumbnail he scritches at the back of Dean's knee, a spot he knows is sensitive from years of sparring. Sam has used that spot to either disable or tickle any time he can to gain an advantage.

It doesn't disappoint this time either. Dean's knees wobble, air whooshes from his lungs and Sam hears from above. “Fuck, Sammy.”

Pleasure courses through Sam; he loves that he can make Dean lose control. He continues exploring, makes zig-zag patterns with his palms over Dean's thighs, relishes the feel of satin over muscle. Sam reaches the end of the stockings and runs a finger under the edges. He's rewarded with a low sound from Dean, something between a gurgle and a curse.

Sam chuckles and Dean says, “Yeah, go ahead and be smug now. Your turn’s coming, baby boy.”

 _Oh God_ Sam clamps his thighs together, arousal jumping through his veins. That nick name, one he hasn't heard in years, should offend or turn him off, but no, it goes straight to his cock, a dirty promise growled out in Dean's voice and Sam is stretched everywhere at once, filthy images playing on his corneas, attention diverted. He pulls himself together, remembers what he wants right now and reminds himself they have time, tonight, tomorrow, the rest of their lives.

Sam ghosts his hands over the tops of Dean's thighs and cups that panty clad ass in his hands. Ever since he saw these panties, he's thought about how Dean's incredible ass would look in them. He didn't even come close. It's better than porn, or his dirtiest fantasy, better than that stripper Sam glimpsed once on a case in her little red thong that he'd jerked off to for months. 

Sam forms the fabric to perfect curves and muscles tighten under his groping. 

“Sammy.” It's panted, a plea, no force or control in it.

Sam leans in noses along Dean's crack. He hadn't been sure, thought maybe it would be repulsive, but it smells overwhelmingly of security; more of Dean than his cast off shirts or his armpits when he's shoved Sam's face into them. Something he never minded as much as he pretended to. Sam bites into one cheek, filmy material and soft flesh in his grip. Dean yelps, but pushes back, into the touch. Sam gives the other cheek the same treatment. He pulls back, caresses the wet spots with his thumbs.

“Jesus, Sammy. You – you got to – ” Dean's hand goes up, rubs across his face, a sure sign that Dean's out of words, trying to hang on to restraint. Sam nips at both cheek again and Dean moans.

Sam touches a suspender, right at the line where panty meets skin. “These have to come off right?”

Dean nods. His hands are clenched in fists and clasped behind his neck.

Sam snaps the first clip removing it from the top of the stocking. He lays a kiss to the revealed stretch of skin and nuzzles down to the top of the stocking, tongue tipping between flesh and hose.

Dean groans and the words some out growled. “Come on, Sam. Don't take all day.”

Sam smiles against Dean's skin. “The gentleman doth protest too much.”

“The geek doth taketh too long and enjoys the teasing too mucheth.”

“Only for my brother’s pleasure do I linger.” With those words Dean groans and offers no worded reply. Sam undoes the second suspender and treats revealed skin to more touches from his lips. Dean's legs are smooth, but in no way feminine, muscles bunching in strong thighs, curving into an adorable bow. Sam leisurely unclips each suspender, his tongue and lips making dashes and dots across Dean's thighs. Dean's breath, stuttered and quick, is the only sound in the room. Once the garter is loose, Sam eases it down and off. Next he rolls one stocking down Dean's shorn leg, a silky expanse encasing hard earned muscle. Fingertips traipse over revealed skin and nails scrape at sensitive flesh until Dean is trembling too much to stand on one foot in order to let Sam remove it, leaving a cuff of stocking around his ankle. He has mercy on his brother and rolls the other stocking down with quick efficiency.

Before Sam can help, Dean bends down and removes the filmy black fabric from his feet and flings it aside as he makes a dash for the bathroom. Sam breathes deep, calming his own arousal. Once again he isn't sure what he wants, desire riding him, blood moving south and deserting his brain cells.

Sam looks up and Dean is fumbling with the corset strings. Sam stumbles to the bathroom, need suffusng him. He has to do this, like he imagined earlier. His hands go around Dean's. “Let me.”

Dean's hands fall to his sides and when Sam touches the back of his neck, grabbing at the necklaces, Dean's head bows.

 _Jesus_ The idea of the back of someone's neck being erotic never entered Sam's mind before. Maybe it's his inexperience, never having the chance to look at somebody like this. Sure he'd grown up around Dad and Dean, thought his dad was handsome and nothing short of beautiful could describe Dean, but Sam had never really _looked_ , never obsessed over the rise of Dean's hipbone or thought of his spine as miniature hills and valleys.

Sam's fingers follow his thoughts, brushing Dean's nape and trailing down his bent neck to the top of the corset. Following his fingers with his lips, Sam presses a trail down Dean's back, open-mouthed kisses over and between the cages of ribbon, memorizing the surface of his brother's skin against his mouth.

“Christ, Sammy.” Dean's muffled curse brings Sam's awareness back from the interesting path down Dean's spine. Of their own will, Sam's hands had traveled around Dean's waist and were twined there together with his brother’s. Over Dean's shoulder Sam meets eyes no longer green, but blown black with lust. “Get this show on the road before I forget about showers and clothes and just knock you over and fuck you.”

The words ricochet through Sam, sounding like a fine idea. He watches his mouth descend to Dean's shoulder and the white of his teeth bite into Dean's flesh as his hips rut forward. Dean's head goes back, his head pillowed on Sam's shoulder, his throat exposed in a long, tempting line above the pearls. Dean shoves his ass back, rubbing against Sam's restrained cock. Sam's all for going at it on the floor, but Dean pulls away, turning around and pushing at Sam's chest.

“I've got this. Why don't you get yourself out of those things?” Sam obediently steps back. They're both breathing heavy, making an attempt at control. Dean points. “Go. Out there. Come back naked.” 

Sam swallows his smile, triumphant that he can affect Dean so much. He turns to leave then remembers something. “Dean – ” He pauses, the request stuck in his throat.

“Spit it out, Sam.” Dean's tugging at the lacing of the corset and not looking at Sam.

The lack of eye contact makes it easier to say, “Could you – don't –“ He takes a breath and forces the words out. “Leave the panties on?” 

Dean halts his progress with the unlacing and looks up, meeting Sam's eyes in the mirror, one eyebrow raised, a smirk on his lips. “Kinky, Sammy.” 

“Whatever.” Sam leaves the bathroom, heat rising up his chest to his ears, and strips as fast as possible, anxious to see if Dean leaves on the panties or not. He almost has to call out for help to get out of the damn jeans, but laying down on the bed and wiggling seems to do the trick.

“What's taking so long, Sammy?” Dean hollers from the bathroom, head peeking around the door frame. 

“Damn pants.” Sam scowls as he shucks them off and towards Dean's head. He misses by a lot, but Dean's grin and retreating laughter don't feel like failure. Sam doesn't move immediately, suddenly shy about his nudity. He's skinny and awkward, doesn't saunter through life like his sex-on-legs brother. He resists the urge to cover his junk. He doesn't want Dean to outright laugh at him.

When he still doesn't get off the bed, Dean steps out of the bathroom, naked except for those damn black underwear. Suddenly Sam's brain is diverted, insecurity swamped by lust and curiosity.

“Sammy.” Dean's voice is graveled smoke and Sam's dick, which had deflated while struggling with his clothes, is taking a new interest. Dean's eyes wander over him, toe to head and back, settling on his dick. Apparently Sam's dick likes Dean's attention as much as the rest of him does, fattening and lengthening under Dean's steady gaze. He walks towards Sam, and it's not cocky or swaying or predatory. It's not the way Sam's seen Dean approach his conquests. It's just Dean, the way he always is with Sam, but a bit more vulnerable, somewhat unsure and desire so deep on his face that Sam could drown in it. Dean stops a few feet in front of where Sam's sitting. He pushes Sam's hair back and palms his jaw and tips Sam's face up, making eye contact, “You've got no idea, do you?” Sam shakes his head no. He really doesn't. 

Dean sighs, opens his mouth, closes it again, then says, “What you do to me. I can't even.” He stops again, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip. “You're beautiful, Sammy. Perfect. You always will be to me.” Before Sam can respond Dean grabs his hand and drags him to the shower.

Dean had already started the water and steam clouds the room, warm and moist. He urges Sam into the overly large shower that has multiple heads, marble walls and floors, and a bench that runs along two of the sides. The other two sides are glass.

Dean grabs a little bottle of something and squeezes some onto his hand. “Close your eyes,” he says. Sam does and Dean's hands come up to his cheeks. “Makeup remover. I'm going to rub it over your eyes.” Fingertips, rub gently at Sam's eyes, over his brows and along his hair line. It's been a long time since Dean's touched him like this – at least seven years or more and it's as soothing and relaxing as Sam remembers. 

Dean's hands fall away and Sam lurches, almost stumbles, but Dean's grabbing his wrists and guiding Sam's hands to his waist. “I got you, baby boy.” That simple nickname shoots right to Sam's libido and languid turpitude becomes wound with arousal.

A hand grabs his neck and Dean murmurs soothing syllables as he wipes over Sam's face with a washcloth. He pushes Sam’s head down until his brow touches the skin of Dean's chest. Fingers massage across Sam's scalp, shampooing away hair product and then applying conditioner. Sam limpet-clings to him as the water swirls around his feet, tinted green with Dean's hair color and make-up.

Sam grazes Dean's hipbones with his thumbs and presses his fingers into the dimples above Dean's ass. Dean's skin is soft here, white, and only the thinnest scar runs down one hip to his thigh. Sam moves his hands further back over the curve of Dean's ass as Dean soaps up Sam's chest and back. Nerve-endings light up with each pass of Dean's soapy hands. Touch combined with the two shower heads is a sensory cocoon, as if Dean is touching him everywhere at once. 

Dean gentles him back upright and hands him the washcloth and grabs another. Sam forgets to wash as his eyes follow the path Dean swipes over his own body. Long neck tilted up and stubble starting to form, down over toned pecs and nipples that make Sam salivate. Bound by arousal and anticipation Sam is mesmerized as Dean lifts one foot then the other, scrubs up his smooth freckled legs and around his backside. The washcloth glides across hipbone and under Dean's balls, wraps around his erect cock and swipes up.

“Can I – ” Sam can't quite manage the words, as if a spell has been cast. The very air seems to vibrate and Sam reaches with one finger to touch that part of Dean that's always been out of reach. He stops, unsure, and looks at Dean.

A nod is all the affirmation he gets. Dean seems to be as caught in whatever this is between them as Sam is. 

Sam runs his fingertip up the vein on Dean's dick. He relishes the shiver of Dean's body and the way his brother sags against the wall and falls to sitting on the bench.

Sam sinks to his knees between Dean's splayed legs, presses his hands to his knees and glides his palms up the hairless expanse of Dean's thighs. He grips Dean's hard-on in one hand. He knows what he wants, can almost taste Dean's skin on his tongue, has imagined so many times how hot and heavy his brother will feel in his mouth.

Dean's hand at his cheek and his name growled out stop him. Sam lifts his eyes. “You don't have to.”

“I want to.” Sam stares until Dean nods an assent, his hand trembling against Sam's cheek.

Sam opens his hand and slides his tongue along his parted fingers to the base of Dean's cock. He wiggles his tongue up to the tip and is rewarded with Dean's hand curling through his hair and a small exclaimed noise somewhere between a grunt and a moan.

Sam meets Dean's eyes as he runs the tip of his tongue around the crown and into the slit. The noise Dean makes this time is loud and high as hips jerk and his breaths shorten. Sam smiles and soaks in Dean's heavy-lidded eyes that are worshipful as they look down at him. Power courses through Sam as he opens his mouth and takes as much of Dean in as he can. He never thought giving head would be such a turn on, but he's mindlessly humping air as he lifts his head and slides the hard length back down in his mouth. 

Using his other hand, Sam cups Dean's balls, rolls them. Now both his brother's hands are in his hair, not pulling but caressing as 'Sammy'  
and broken curses fall from his lips. 

Sam explores, pulling off and taking Dean deeper, the crown of Dean's cock bumping the back of his throat. He almost chokes but wants even more, wants Dean deeper, wishes he could swallow him whole. Before Sam is ready Dean tap at Sam's shoulder, “Gonna, God, Sammy, fuck.” 

Sam never has a chance to move – not that he would have before Dean is pulsing in his hand, come filling his mouth. Sam swallows, then moves up to lap at the head of Dean's dickeven as come stains the corners of his mouth.

Dean slumps and Sam pulls back. The hand still in his hair moves to cup his cheek and Sam suddenly can't look up as he asks, “Was that – ”

He doesn't get the words out as Dean pulls him up and across his lap, peppering kisses across the bridge of his nose. “Perfect. God, Sam, it, I can't, perfect. You're perfect.”

Sam raises his eyes to Dean's which are looking at Sam like he's hung the moon and gathered the stars. Love wells up in Sam and they crash together, teeth-clacking, tongues exploring in a deep kiss.

Finally they stop for breath, foreheads touching. Dean's fingers wrap around Sam's cock. “Show me. Want to watch you touch yourself.”

Those words draw a groan deep from within Sam and he fists his dick, his hand fumbling over and between Dean's grasp. _Fuck_ Dean wanting to watch shouldn't be such a turn on, but the fire in Sam's belly and the way his balls pull up say different, especially with the taste of Dean's come still thick in his throat. 

Dean removes his hand and places his palm high on Sam's leg, fingers splayed, nearly wrapping the width of Sam's thigh. Dean's gaze is a flame, a burn that sinks into Sam's skin.

“You ever think about me when you do this, Sammy?'

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? What do you think about?”

Sam doesn't have words for all the filthy things he's imagined Dean doing to him. Every porn, every romance, every couple kissing has turned into Dean and him in his mind. But the one thing that has always been his deepest, darkest secret. The one bullet proof desire, guaranteed to push him over the edge, even if he had only five minutes in a gas station bathroom is the one he wants to utter now. “Think about you – you fucking me.”

“Is that what you want, baby boy? Want me to push you down on the bed and pound that pretty ass? Want me to lick you open and finger you until you're begging?

“Yes, yes.” That's exactly what Sam wants, what he's wanted for years. Those filthy words from his brother's mouth bring him right to the edge. Two swift pulls and he's arching into the hand Dean has at his back. White stripes of come fall over his hand and across Dean's grip on his thigh before being washed away in a spray of water.

Sam slumps forward across Dean and mumbles. “Sorry. I – ” 

Again Dean cuts him short. “That was so fucking hot, Sammy. Besides we're both teenagers, not like we can't go again.” 

Sam meets Dean's eyes full of humor and affection and love. “Let's get out of here before we prune up.”

Dean drags him from the shower and wraps him in the largest and softest towel Sam has ever seen. Sam is definitely sneaking a couple into their duffel before they leave in the morning.

:::

Sam startles awake, everything unfamiliar: the soft sheets, the clean spring smell, the naked line of Dean's body pressed against his side. He could get used to this, especially the Dean part. The rest is window dressing.

Sam sits up, scrubs through his hair and gazes over his brother's naked body. His heart contracts in a pinch. He is so stupidly in love with his adorable, beautiful, brave brother. He can't imagine anyone that could ever fill all of the places in his soul that Dean does.

Sam reaches out, rubs the tufts of bed-mussed hair on Dean's head between his fingers. It's softer now, product long gone after their shower. His thumb presses over the marks he left on Dean's neck, – the lightest touch so he doesn't wake his brother who never sleeps enough. Warm heat from a smile courses though him. They both love bruising each other, leaving marks that say _mine_ even if no one besides them will ever know who the author is. Arousal floods into Sam as images from last night re-play in his head. Sam flattens his hand and smooths over the skin between Dean's shoulder blades; the freckles form constellations and archipelagos across the span of his skin. He's always seen Dean's back as a work of art – muscles taut on either side, framing the graceful curve of spine– more perfect than any sculpture or drawing; now it's art he gets to touch and explore, to know intimately.

Sam pulls back with a sigh before his twitching fingers can shove down the sheet, expose the round curve of Dean's ass. Doubts twist into his head. What if last night was a one-time thing. It's not like Dean will abandon him, but maybe the sex part was a fluke, a blip on the brotherly relationship that Dean will want to pretend didn't happen. What about Dad? Even if they both want to do this, how do they hide it from Dad? It's not like he's unobservant, even if he is oblivious to so many things in Sam's life.

“Quit thinking so loud, Einstein. You're disturbing my beauty sleep.” Dean's head is turned toward Sam, eyes blinking and smile crinkling his eyes. 

Before Sam can answer, spew out all his doubts and questions, Dean says, “You don't need to worry.” He puts out an arm and winds it into Sam's hair, tugging him down until their lips meet, soft and affectionate. Sam melts into the kiss, his worries and doubts scurry away under Dean's obvious desire, tongue stroking over his lips and tongue, before withdrawing. Heat flares in Sam's gut and his cock twitches.

Dean's smile turns wicked. “We have the room for a couple more hours. I think we should take advantage of that ten-man tub in there.”

“But – ”

Dean drops his hand, smile slipping. “You do want this, us, you know, going forward?” Dean's blank expression and hollow words scream that he has doubts as deep as Sam's.

Sam would do anything to take that away. He knocks Dean back into the pillows, straddles his thighs and peppers kisses all over Dean's face, interspersed with, “Yes, god, yes, so much.”

Dean laughs, and grabs Sam's face. “Okay, happy puppy, I got it.” Sam smiles back and once again Dean is stealing his thoughts. “We both want this. We'll make it work. Dad won't be easy, but he taught us everything we know and let's face it, he doesn't exactly pay a lot of attention to what we do if it isn't hunt related. We'll have to be careful, but I'm not giving this up unless you change your mind.”

In Dean's world that little speech is like a fucking state of address. Sam presses in slow and deliberate, mouth covering Dean's. He swipes in, taking every inch of his brother's mouth, flicking his tongue and doing this little curling thing Dean taught him. When Dean whimpers, Sam pulls back and moves his mouth to Dean's ear. “Not gonna happen.”

Dean's arms tighten around him and he says. “Good I'd hate to have to kick your ass for breaking up with me.

Sam grins, scoots off the bed and pulls Dean by the wrist into the bathroom. Like Dean said, they’ve only got a couple hours; no need to waste them.


End file.
